The Long Road Home
by Compgirl21
Summary: Chelsea and Vaughn both have pasts less than fortunate. When they escape together from their unhappy lives, their relationship is rocky at best. What could they possibly expect to gain from each other?
1. Preface

**Preface **

"_**Monsters are real, and ghosts are real too. They live inside us, and sometimes, they win." – **_**Stephen King**

I hate this place.

It's dark, cold, and it stinks. A lot. The wind whips through the ally, pitching the stench at me. It burns in my nostrils and triggers my gag reflex. The decision to spend the night here suddenly seems like a very bad one, but there's no fixing it now.

Hiking through this godforsaken city during the day is bad enough; doing it at night would be unbearable. At least for the moment; I would be forced to run in the dark under different circumstances.

I've done it before, and run into more than a few psychopaths scattered around here and there. I can always tell who they were because a thick cloud of terrible sadism clings to them like a second skin, brightening their horrifying eyes and darkening their souls.

Besides, sneaking around at this hour with my backpack will draw unwanted attention to the fact that I had nowhere to go home to. Nobody will really care, but it's still better to remain inconspicuous.

A freezing breeze hits me, making me shiver so hard my teeth chatter. The cold bites at my face, and I'm sure my cheeks are cherry red. I'll have to steal something warm soon. Wincing at the thought, I try to position my backpack so it will block the wind.

It helps some, but it's not even close to the kind of protection I desire. And I can form a picture of what I _do _desire in my head pretty easily. A little house, a soft bed . . . perhaps a window to look out. I don't let my mind linger these fantasies for long.

They get me nowhere. Of course, there's always the possibility I'll make it to my destination, and things will get better, but the ache in my heart and the coldness seeping into my bones makes me doubt it.

My motivation is rapidly disappearing. At least before, I had someone to travel with. Someone to talk to. Someone to share the burden of living with. Now it's just me, and I'll never see him again. Maybe it's for the best. I don't know.

There's a lot of things I don't know.

I chastise myself for a while, but I know it's not helping. Sometime soon, those happy images will sneak up on me again and whisper in my ear. Things always seem so much easier in my dreams. But this – my situation, my sorry excuse of a life – is not a dream. It's reality, and it's bleak. It's brutal.

And it will be, until I can find my way to where I think I belong. Out of this crises. Out of my own personal hell. I sigh, and moan a little aloud. There's no one around to hear, not anymore, and if there is, they stick to the shadows and remain unseen.

Right now, the future seems just as daunting as the present. And I'm not sure if that _can _change. I close my eyes, and let a wave of self-pity wash over me, an emotion I allow myself to succumb to only occasionally.

I hate this place.

**A/N: I plan to finish up the rest of my stories shortly, with the exception of Before and After, which is on hiatus. **


	2. This Is My Life

**1. This Is My Life **

"_**You laugh because I'm different – I laugh because you're all the same." - ?**_

I think the teacher asks me a question. I'm almost positive I don't know the answer, since I hardly listen to anything that passes through her thin lips. But I look up at her anyway, staring directly at her pale blue eyes.

Jutting my chin out defiantly, I ask her to repeat the question. She does and, as I expected, I have no clue what the answer is. The other students in the room hold their breath, and the tension is thick in the air.

I have a bit of a reputation around this school. Everyone knows that I say exactly what's on my mind, no matter how cruel or spiteful it is. In my head, the words generally sound less harsh. I can think of a thousand different ways to behave even worse than I already do at this school, but I never act upon my urges because I know the teachers and counselors and the principle will find an excuse to expel me.

And, as much as I hate it here, spending my time back at _home _would be even worse than school. So I clench my fists beneath my small square desk and stick to a more subdued version of what my teachers already think is awful conduct.

I heave a deep sigh, and shake my head. "I don't know, Mrs. Stone. I don't like math." As usual, my voice is bitingly sharp. Mrs. Stone blinks at me while the other students shift their gazes to the teacher, waiting eagerly for her response.

When I say things like I just have, she dismisses me from class, threatens me with detention, or snaps at me to pay attention. I know my classmates are hoping for the first option, because they'll get to watch the dramatic showing of me gathering my things, and walking out the door with as much dignity as I can maintain.

It doesn't really matter to me what happens; it sickens me that my classmates are delighted by my math disruption, because for a few precious moments they are able to get away from Mrs. Stone's monotone voice explaining mathematic formulas and equations.

None of them have anything real to worry about.

Suddenly, Mrs. Stone shakes her head and snaps, "Pay attention, Chelsea. The material we're looking over now will be on the test, which is worth a large portion of your grade this semester."

She holds my gaze for a split second, and I know my lips have twisted into a grim frown. She knows very well that my grade in math class means nothing to me. She turns away from me and calls on Molly Blackston, a know-it-all who hardly ever answers incorrectly.

My eyes dart around the room, and I can tell several students are irritated because the teacher didn't make a bigger show of my rude remark. They all look away instantaneously when I meet their gazes; they always do. I am an oddity, a freak.

They won't hold my eyes because they believe I am beneath them – that I'm not worth looking at. I've long since grown used to this fact, but it still bothers me. I suppress my annoyance; like self-pity, it will get me nowhere.

Mrs. Stone continues to teach, but she shoots me aggravated glances every so often. I stare back, my face expressionless. I have long since perfected the poker face. I don't know why she bothers to call on me; she knows I'll never give her a real answer.

She, apparently, is one of the few that hasn't stopped trying to "fix" me. But if she says one word to me about seeing a counselor or a psychiatrist, I swear I'll snap. All worries about being expelled with fly out of my mind and I'll curse at her with every foul word I know.

When I first entered this horrible school, they all tried to get me to talk, to "open up" about the past and what I was feeling. They found out pretty quickly that they weren't going to get what they wanted. Mostly because I _don't _feel anything.

Since then, I've been mostly ignored, by teachers and students alike. I am just a wisp of a shadow, an invisible figure slinking through the halls; an irritating presence people wish would disappear entirely.

I would be more than happy to grant their wish.

I don't want to be here anymore than they want me to be. But there are laws in this country that state I must be educated, low grade point average or not. A few brave people who have noticed my misery have suggested homeschooling.

Molly Blackston approached me just days ago, and asked why I didn't "just do that", if I hated it here so badly. Her tone made it obvious that we both wished I was somewhere else. I had blinked at her, betrayed no emotion, though inside it felt like my soul was shriveling up and dying at the suggestion. No. I would spend no more time at _home _than I absolutely had to.

My reply was bleak. "Don't talk to me, Molly Blackston." And then I'd turned and stalked away. Now, I glance up at the digital clock set above the door. Five minutes to go. Mrs. Stone concludes her lesson and hands a stack of study guides to a boy whose name I've forgotten. Another teacher's pet.

His fingers accidentally brush mine as he hands me the white sheet of paper with professional black print. He grimaces, and jerks his hand back, as if my skin has burned him. Frowning tightly at the boy's cruelty, I look down at the study sheet. It gives me something to focus on besides the deadness inside me.

Most of the problems and formulas make no sense to me. I actually begin trying to decipher them before I stop, disgusted with myself. It doesn't matter if the answer to question one is six or six thousand.

Math is not going to make any aspect of my life better, so why bother trying to learn it? Survival in a pitiless world has always been my main goal. Knowing how to figure out linear equations will not get me out of trouble. Even in another life – a happier one – this subject would not interest me.

I snort at that last thought, ignoring the other students, who glance at each other, questioning my sanity. A happy life. Like that was in my future. Like I would ever know anything other than the nothingness eating away at my hard heart. Like anyone would care if I lived or died. No, happiness is not in my future.

This is my reality. My hell. I belong in misery. Hoping for anything else at this point would be foolish. I've never seen anything around to convince me otherwise. This is my life. It isn't pretty. It isn't about how I fell in love with my high school boyfriend and dumped him because he made out with my best friend.

It isn't about how I lent someone a lovely green sweater and got mad at her because she shrunk it in the dryer. As far as I can tell, these are some of the main problems of my other female classmates.

What I wouldn't give to have those kinds of worries. The bell rings, signaling the end of first period. I stuff the useless study guide into my ratty old backpack, and head towards the door. I am the last student to leave.

Just as my hand touches the door handle, I hear Mrs. Stone say, "Chelsea?"

I sigh, wanting nothing more than to ignore her and leave. But I know her level of tolerance with me is running short, and I really don't want to go see the short, balding principle. So I turn, letting my wariness show on my face.

"Yes, Mrs. Stone?"

She opens her mouth, and then closes it. She looks like some sort of odd pale fish. The brightly colored ovals on her shirt resemble scales. I imagine her flopping around on sand, opening and closing those pale lips. Indecision makes her hesitate, and I brace myself for whatever is coming.

Finally, she manages a small, fake smile and says, "Study that guide."

But I can tell by the resigned note in her voice that she knows I won't heed her request.

Maybe she's realized that she should stop trying to help me.

Maybe she's finally seen the truth; that I am beyond help.

**OoOoOoOo**

Even though I would never tell him, I have a fondness of my second period English teacher.

I like his wide, happy green eyes and the passionate way he loves what he teaches. I love the way he bounds around the room and crows to his class about this great new book he's reading.

When I first came here, he was the only one who was sincere in his concern for me. I think of myself as a good judge of character – I can read people fairly well. Another survival instinct I have relied up on throughout the years.

Even now, he occasionally asks me how I'm doing. Although he'll never get the truth out of me, I appreciate that he wants to know. A few times I've gotten the insane urge to confide in him; even though it goes against everything I currently stand for.

My beliefs change on a regular basis. I know he would listen, but I've told myself repeatedly that there isn't anything he could do for me. If I can ever think of something he _could _do, though, I'll ask him.

Because he'll try to help me. And be glad to do it. He smiles at me when I walk into his classroom, though I'm two minutes late. I settle into the last empty desk. Unfortunately for me, it's located in the first row – exactly where I don't like to be.

Though my English teacher is less strict than the others, and more understanding, he still calls on me sometimes, and is more likely to do so if I'm sitting in the front. Mr. Walter grins at the glass and asks for a volunteer.

Felicity Anderson's hand shoots up into the air, causing her pretty blonde curls to bounce. Mr. Walter hands her a stack of green papers, and she begins distributing one to each person in the class. I frown when I scan the writing – we're going over poetry today.

Hopefully it's not the beginning of a long, painful unit. I try very hard to pay attention to the lesson, because I want to appease Mr. Walter. His eyes practically dance with joy as he tells us to read the single poem on the paper to ourselves before we read it aloud as a class.

And discuss it. Ugh. Trying to keep myself from groaning aloud, I begin reading the black writing. I fidget with a piece of my hair as I do so.

It reads:

_**The Road Not Taken **_

_**By Robert Frost **_

**Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,  
>And sorry I could not travel both<br>And be one traveler, long I stood  
>And looked down one as far as I could<br>To where it bent in the undergrowth;**

**Then took the other, as just as fair,**  
><strong>And having perhaps the better claim,<strong>  
><strong>Because it was grassy and wanted wear;<strong>  
><strong>Though as for that the passing there<strong>  
><strong>Had worn them really about the same,<strong>

**And both that morning equally lay**  
><strong>In leaves no step had trodden black.<strong>  
><strong>Oh, I kept the first for another day!<strong>  
><strong>Yet knowing how way leads on to way,<strong>  
><strong>I doubted if I should ever come back.<strong>

**I shall be telling this with a sigh**  
><strong>Somewhere ages and ages hence:<strong>  
><strong>Two roads diverged in a wood, and I-<strong>  
><strong>I took the one less traveled by,<strong>  
><strong>And that has made all the difference<strong>

Poetry really isn't my cup of tea, so to speak, but I actually love reading. Getting my hands on books is hard, though, because the school library is currently closed, the public one is across town, and I know better than to spend any money I manage to get on them.

Whenever Mr. Walter talks about a novel that sounds interesting, I almost turn green with envy. Since I hardly ever get to do it, I shouldn't be picky. My irritation at reading poetry is easily suppressed.

After we're done reading the poem as a class, Mr. Walter asks us what it means. A few raise their hands, and the teacher grins as each person gives their own opinion, clapping his hands when someone points out something that is not easily seen.

Then he launches into a long speech about how wonderful poetry is, because it can have different meanings for different people, and no one is ever really wrong. By the end of it, my mind is miles away.

I'm trying to decide whether or not to cut third period history, when I feel Mr. Walter's enthusiastic eyes on my face.

"Chelsea?" he asks.

His voice takes on that cautious note everyone has when they talk to me. I blink at him, trying to remember what it was the class was discussing. More often than not, I space out in school. So when I actually try to pay attention, I don't always succeed.

But then I say in a quiet voice, "Yes?"

I hope he repeats himself.

He senses my predicament, gives me a kind smile, and says, "What's your interpretation of Mr. Frost's poem?"

I bite back a snide comment. This is Mr. Walter, the teacher who has always been nice to me. So I do something I'm entirely unaccustomed to: I try and come up with an actual reply.

"I think that . . . it means . . . that it's okay to be different. To do something out of the ordinary. To take the road less traveled." I smile a little, pleased at my answer.

I can tell Mr. Walter is, too, because he beams at me and claps his hands together. "Thank you for your opinion, Chelsea."

He moves onto another student, and I breathe a sigh of relief. Mr. Walter knows that I don't like to draw attention to myself, so he only made a brief comment and moved on, whereas with another person he would have gone on about the intelligence of the answer.

I lean back in my chair, confident I won't be called on again, and ponder my own words. Yes, I think the poem is saying that it's okay to be different. But it's not. At least not anywhere I've been.

In high school, everyone just naturally knows what group they belong to: nerds, jocks, preps, and so forth. It's similar to survival instincts.

High school can eat you alive if you let it. I, however, do not fit into any category. I don't have any sort of place. It is for this reason most people wish to throw me away altogether. I try to tell myself that I don't mind not belonging.

The truth is, I don't want to belong here. I hate most everyone in this school, with a few rare exceptions. But I _do _mind the fact that I don't feel like I belong _anywhere. _If I was normal, I would work hard to please my teachers and my friends. My biggest worry would be the next math test Mrs. Stone tosses at me.

But that's not how it is. I can lie to myself about some things, but not about what I desire. And one thing I _don't _want is standing out pretty clearly in my mind right now. I don't want to be on the road not taken, because it is a barren, bumpy place where no one can help you; no one will love you.

Because you are all alone.

**OoOoOoOo**

In the end, I decide to attend history. I don't want to push my luck – just because Mrs. Stone was easy on me today doesn't mean anyone else will. Besides, my history teacher – a plump, frizzy-haired woman named Mrs. Fields – is terribly grumpy, and would probably end up exaggerating to the principle if I was caught.

Probably say she thought I'd cut class for a cigarette, though I've never touched one in my life. I categorize my morning teachers this way: Mrs. Stone is boring and fish-like, Mr. Walter is kind and thoughtful, and Mrs. Fields is just plain mean.

Normally people become teacher for their love of children, so I have no idea what got this woman hired. She really hates me, more so than any other instructor. Mostly because I hardly ever do the homework she assigns.

It infuriates her that I don't really care about my grades. She always eyes me in class, ready to pounce if I do anything that could be consider a breach in school rules. I try to be polite to her – difficult as it is – because she is quick to send me to the principle.

The short, beady-eyed principle. It's not the punishments he gives me that makes me loathe him; it's his personality in general. Principle Terry prides himself on keeping a nice, orderly school with bright, happy students.

This, of course, makes me on the same level as the slime on the bottom of his shoes. Every time I get into a fight with another student, he always takes my opponent's side, even if it's my nose that's bleeding.

Whenever I'm dismissed from his office, it's usually with a veiled threat about him "keeping an eye on me". I hate the way he looks at me. I hate getting that wary, offensive look from anybody, but it feels like it should be different with a principle.

Especially one that seems so cheery at all the school assemblies.

But it's not. He doesn't care anymore than the rest of them do. It is for these reasons I try to avoid him as much as possible. As Mrs. Fields begins her lecture, I let my mind drift away. I think about the time I placed a tack in the middle of her chair at the beginning of the school year.

It was funny to watch her shoot up so quickly, and the look of surprise on her face was priceless. What was even better was the fact that she didn't have any evidence that I was the culprit. She knows I did it, though.

That's probably another reason she hates me. Mrs. Fields hardly ever calls on me, mostly because she has little patience with my sharp comments, and it doesn't feed her ego to be insulted in front of her class.

Though I sometimes wonder how big her ego can be, with her ugly patterned dresses and the constant mascara goop in the corners of her eyes. When she's not getting me into trouble, she's usually ignoring me.

It's difficult to focus on my thoughts, because every so often Matthew Harris leans forward and pokes my back with the tip of his pencil. I grit my teeth, and pretend not to notice the sharp point digging into my flesh.

Without looking, I can tell he's smiling at my discomfort. Calmly, I reach inconspicuously behind me, and rip the pencil of his hand. Quietly, I snap it in two beneath my desk, letting the remains fall to the floor.

From the corner of my eye, I see Matthew frown, and then he reports to Mrs. Fields, "Chelsea broke my pencil."

His voice has a whiny, extremely irritating quality that reminds me of a small child. Mrs. Fields glares at me, and I mutter something about getting him a new one, though I intend to do no such thing.

The teacher thankfully drops it and moves on. After a minute, I feel something poking my back again, probably a pen or a ruler. I count slowly from one to ten in my head, resisting the strong urge to whip around and punch him dead in the face.

Principle Terry has warned me that one more fight will lead to two weeks' suspension. The idea of spending so much time back at home repulses me, so I have to control myself.

The hour passes slowly, and by the time the bell rings for lunch, I'm sure I have a permanent red hole in my back. As I pass Matthew on my way to the door, I flip him off when I'm sure Mrs. Fields isn't looking.

And then I head to the cafeteria.

**OoOoOoOo**

If it wasn't for the fact that I get to eat, I would hate this time of day. It's when everybody floats to their specific tables to talk and giggle with their friends. It's when people look at me the most. It's when they laugh and whisper about me and make up wild stories they themselves know are untrue.

I hate them all. The looks I hate the most, thought, are the ones that show pity. And I get quite a few of those looks, too. I shudder at the thought. You can laugh at me, glare at me, or spit on me, but don't ever look at me with pity in your eyes.

It makes me feel naked, worthless and wholly depressed. The thick, impenetrable wall of toughness I have constructed around myself is all I have; pity does not help me. I move through the line of students, fingering the money in my pocket.

As much as they hate doing it, the Crazies back at _home _have to give lunch money to me, to give others the illusion that I have a good, happy place to live. Sometimes I skip lunch so I can save the money – well, more than sometimes.

I keep it in an old jar under the ratty sofa in the basement – neither of the Crazies ever goes down there. I know I shouldn't spend the money today, but I haven't eaten since the day before yesterday, and my stomach is snarling like a rabid dog.

I collect a slice of pizza, an apple, and a little carton of white milk from the line. Handing the lady at the end of the line my money, she squints at it, puts it in her cash register, and gives me a stiff nod.

I slip into the maze of high school students, searching for _my _usual place. It's at the end of the long room, exactly like all the others. No one but me ever sits there. It's _my _table, my little safe haven in this crowded room.

A girl named Jennifer sat there were her friends three weeks ago, and I nearly threw her out of her seat. I proclaimed to them that this was my space. They argued with me for a while, but something in my eyes made them leave eventually.

"It's just as well," I heard one girl whisper to Jennifer. "Why would we ever sit anywhere _she's _touched?"

They had giggled. Thankfully, there was no such problem to worry about today. I sat down at my little table, and began eating. As I chew, I carefully scan the cafeteria, warily as usual. Nothing unusual happens for quite a long time.

But then I hear a door open behind me, the one that leads into the eastern hall, and I turn my head slightly to see the new arrival. It's important to act like I don't really care, because if it's someone cruel, that's just an open invitation for trouble.

But the moment I recognize the person, I know I don't have to worry about him drawing attention to me. From the way my head is titled, I can only see him partially, but it's still incredibly easy to recognize him.

Nobody in this entire school looks quite the same.

The color of his hair – a sleek, silver color that generally belongs on older men – gives him away immediately. And if it was a different, more normal color (brown, black, etc.), his eyes would alert me as to whom he was.

They are the oddest color of purple. Not blue, not hazel, not green . . . purple. I have never seen anyone with his eyes before. Once, when I was sneaking around a jewelry store – not to steal, just to look – I found an incredibly beautiful ring with the most beautiful purple stone set in the middle, surrounded by a silver band decorated with diamonds.

I asked the clerk what kind of gem it was.

She was snobby with me, knowing I couldn't really buy anything, but eventually she said, "It's called amethyst."

I had gazed down in awe at the ring, thinking about how much I would love own it.

She'd seen the longing in my eyes and was quick to add, "It's _very _expensive."

I'd frowned at her, bitten back an insult, and stalked out of the store. But the very first time I'd seen him, his eyes instantly reminded me of that ring. I had marveled for days at how they were the exact same shade.

As he passed me, I remained completely silent. I watched him melt into the crowd, though I knew I'd be able to pick him out pretty easily if I really tried. I hadn't learned his name until a little while ago.

Vaughn.

He had piqued my interest at first, not just because of his unusual look, but also because of his conduct. He, too, was very quiet, and often got in trouble for snapping rude remarks at teachers and pupils.

I'd seen him around a few times, and he never really talked to anybody. At first, this had made me ecstatic. It was the first time I'd ever been remotely happy in this school. I'd thought that maybe we were the same.

Maybe he would talk to me. But the first and only time I tried to start a conversation, he did to me what I usually do to everyone who initiates contact with me: he glared and walked away. I had stared after him with my mouth open, probably resembling the fishy look Mrs. Stone has perfected.

I had gotten over it pretty quickly, though; I was foolish for allowing hope to sprout in my heart and spread through my body like some horrible virus. Of course he wouldn't speak to me. He was just like everyone else, no matter what it looked like.

Since my failed attempt, I've told myself that repeatedly. Still, I occasionally find myself studying him carefully, as if looking for holes in his armor of silence. I don't long for a friend. I really don't. I am perfectly fine with solitude.

But that doesn't mean I wouldn't grab hold of an opportunity if it presented itself. I have resigned myself to the fact that it probably never will. Sighing a little, I go back to eating my lunch. Afterwards, I go outside and kick around some rocks, glancing occasionally at the students smoking behind the gym.

When the bell rings, I go to the girl's locker room; it's time for Physical Education. I actually like this class. Of all things in the school, this is the only one that can really benefit me. I like the long runs and all the exercises we do; it keeps me in shape.

And I need to be in shape. Who knows when I'll have to move really fast to get away from something scary? So a tiny ember of happiness is settled in my heart when we run laps around the track after changing into uniforms.

I run until my sides are cramping, my lungs are burning and my leg muscles are begging me to quit. Sweat is beading at my temples and making my clothes stick to my skin. A group of girls – who have been walking the whole time – giggle at my appearance when I pass them after the teacher – Mr. Fredrick – has blown his whistle, the signal to stop.

I ignore them and wipe the sweat from my face. On my way back to the locker room, I pass Vaughn again. Lunch and gym is the only time of the day we're in the same room. He looks straight ahead, looking at no one, though I pause beside him.

When I get no response, I frown and jog to the locker room door. The rest of the day passes in a blur. My Spanish teacher – another subject that I despise – surprises us with a pop quiz, and I try to do the best I can, though I know I haven't gotten one answer right.

I catch bits and pieces in classes like Math and Biology, but I know maybe three Spanish words. When school ends, I finally get to leave school for the day. I walk through the parking lot. A little ways away, Vaughn gets into a small blue car and speeds away.

I scowl, irritated with myself for noticing. Turning away, I begin walking back towards _home. _My pace is slow – I'm in no hurry to get there. My heart is tightening with despair again, and I try to push the agonizing emotion away.

Tomorrow will be exactly like today. I'll get up, I'll go to school, and I'll come back _home. _I feel I'm in deep pit with no hope of ever getting out. I feel like nothing will ever get any better. Ever. Try as I might, the feeling refuses to leave me.

It never really does.

**A/N: Hoping to update this on the weekends. **


	3. Charade

Charade

"_**Just because I'm smiling doesn't mean I'm happy."**_

I get back _home _much sooner than I want.

No matter how slowly I drag my feet down the sidewalk, they always seem to move too fast. I pause occasionally to blankly stare at nothing; probably giving the people I pass by the impression that I'm insane.

Well. I mostly likely am.

If I _am_ crazy, other people made me that way. The gray house I live in seems like a sinister shadow, even on this bright, sunny day. In the dark, I have no trouble believing that ghosts roam through the halls. The paint on one side is peeling; weeds are sprouting in the garden.

Crazy Number One will be on me to get rid of them shortly. I moan a little at the sight of the quickly growing grass; I hate touching that hideous old lawn mower.

At least it's autumn, and soon everything around here will frost. I won't have to worry about yard work then. Of course, that also means it'll be cold in the house. I'll have to steal a jacket at school soon.

I make a mental note to come outside later and rake up the dirty leaves I know will be scattered around in the back. The tree isn't even on The Crazies' property – it just hangs over the side of the brown wooden fence, shedding its leaves with no regard for my feelings.

I've complained before to Crazy Number Two about it, but he's not the one who cleans up the mess, so why would he care? I wonder idly where the rake is, purposefully lingering in front of the house.

As I'm thinking, I hear a noise to my left. I glance up, and see that the neighbor's front door – not the neighbors with the tree – has just opened.

Vaughn stalks out, a set of keys in his hand and a scowl on his face. I know he must have seen me on his way out – his eyes sweep in my direction, shining a little in the light. But, as usual, he doesn't acknowledge my presence.

I'm kind of glad he doesn't, because there's real, unabashed anger in his expression. I would hate to be on the receiving end of his glare – I would melt into a little puddle just to get away. I turn my head away from him, pretending I don't notice him, either.

The front door suddenly slams shut, making me jump a little. When I hear the car door slam as well, I look back, hoping he doesn't look at me again through the windows. The engine of the little blue car snarls, seemingly as angry as its driver, and reverses dangerously fast out of the driveway.

The tires squeal against the pavement as he speeds away. I frown, wondering what could possibly make him so infuriated. I've been living in the gray house since spring now, so I can't believe I just figured out who lived next to me at the beginning of summer.

The first time I'd seen him was at school – he'd hurried by me in the hall, giving me a small glimpse of his eyes for me to ponder over for days – and one day I noticed the same car he drove to school was in the driveway next to mine.

When I thought hard about it, though, I realized that I left for school earlier than most people do, and I got home a hell of a lot later. We were always almost coming and going at different times, so it sort of made sense I hadn't noticed that he was my neighbor for a long time.

It had shocked me silly at first; it was as if I had subconsciously believed that he lived at school or something. I couldn't picture him doing anything outside of snapping at people and stalking around the grounds.

But I had scolded myself for that. Of course he would live somewhere. Of course he has a life. Still, it had taken a while to get used to the idea. When I left my _home _a little later than usual, I saw him leave the house with his black bag.

And every single day, I contemplated going up to him just once more. Perhaps at his house, where he would have nowhere to retreat to. When I witnessed him going to his car, sometimes I had to physically stop myself from walking to the other driveway.

At first I was very irritated with him for not making any effort at all to speak to me. After all, we see each other every day, both at school and at home.

But then I realized I was being very hypocritical. I'm not terribly approachable, and I snub everyone at school. What he's doing and what I'm doing is one in the same thing. And, as for me, I don't have plans on becoming Mary Sue Sunshine and starting campaigns with the friendly saying _Go Green. _

Expecting him to be the first one to talk was stupid of me. And I can't afford to be stupid. I have no idea who he is. He could be a serial killer, wanted in hundreds of countries, for all I know. I highly doubt that's the case, but if it is, I would never know. Interacting with anyone could cause me trouble right now.

So I'd better cage my insane desires and never let them out.

If he doesn't do anything, I don't do anything. It's as simple as that. Frowning tightly to myself, I begin walking up the driveway of the shadowy gray house. I'm so focused on my thoughts that I fail to notice the plump black cat lying next to Crazy Number One's little green Toyota.

My foot comes down on its tail, and it yowls loudly. Jumping back, I bite my lip, hoping that Crazy Number One isn't watching me from the window. If she knew I'd hurt her precious Plushy – intentionally or otherwise – she'd have a hissy fit.

Plushy's big green eyes flash angrily as she leaps to her feet, taking a quick swipe at me with her claws before bounding away. Thankfully, she only slashed at my pants, and it wasn't deep enough to penetrate the fabric.

Who knows how much trouble I'd get into for sneaking Neosporin from the medicine cabinet. Inside, though, I'm smiling to myself as I finally make it to the door with the ugly lion knocker. I hate that cat. Mostly because I'm jealous of the food she eats.

Crazy Number One dotes on her like she's the single most beautiful thing in the world, and gives her enough food for two people. Plushy hates me, too; I can tell because she's always hissing at me and warily keeping her distance. I've often daydreamed about leaving her in the dumpster just outside the school, or perhaps putting something toxic in her little kitty treats

But Crazy Number One would eat me alive, more so than so already does. Even if Plushy did die, and it wasn't my doing, I'd probably still be blamed, just because Crazy Number One knows how much I hate the cat.

So it gives me a small amount of pleasure to do mean things like step on her tail. I slowly raise my hand to the doorknob, but before my fingers can even brush it, the door swings open, and Crazy Number One is staring down at me with her narrow, muddy eyes.

Fear flashes through me for an instant, before I replace it with my usual defiance. The fear won't leave me completely; the best thing to do is just bury it and try to forget it's there. Crazy Number One then does something that shocks the hell out of me; she smiles.

"Hello, Chelsea, dear," she says, her voice warm and light.

Usually it's flat and toneless, similar to Mrs. Stone's, but much crueler and business-like.

I blink, unable to contain my surprise. "Um, hi," I mutter.

As the astonishment fades, suspicion begins to form. Why is she being nice?

"Come in, darling, and tell me about your day." Crazy Number One gestures for me to come in.

I eye her warily as I move into the hall, expecting a knife in the back or something. I'm almost tempted to speak my thoughts, but if her niceness is real – which it isn't – I don't want to shatter the moment.

I linger in the hallway as she shuts the door behind me, waiting for the usual white sheet of paper proclaiming my chores – they vary from day to day. When she turns, she's still smiling, but I can see the effort it takes for her to keep the grin.

She never smiles at me.

"Well, go on into the living room and sit down. We have a guest, so I expect you to be on your best behavior."

I give her a sniff nod, leave my backpack by the coat rack, and move down the hall towards the living room. The walls are bare and white, as usual. The rest of them are pretty much the same, with the exception of a strange black and red painting hanging in the Crazies' bedroom.

I cautiously enter the living room, maneuvering as if on a bomb field – I never know what to expect. On the brown leather couch sits a woman in a long black skirt and a bright yellow blouse.

Her eyes look round and big, thanks to the amount of mascara she's wearing. At least it doesn't create gunk in the corners of them, like with Mrs. Fields. There's a shiny yellow bag on the floor next to her, and earrings shaped like daisies sparkle in the sunlight shining through the window.

Another oddity – Crazy Number Two usually likes the blinds closed. The woman grins hugely at me when I look at her, and my eyes narrow in response. Every little warning bell is going off in my head, telling me that something's not right.

Crazy Number One doesn't smile at me. She doesn't ask me to talk about my day. The drapes shouldn't be open, and there shouldn't be a smiling daisy lady on the couch. The lady continues to smile even though I'm openly hostile back.

"Good to see you, Chelsea," she says kindly. She reaches up to fidget with a piece of her white-blonde hair. I frown at her.

"How do you know my name?"

Just then, Crazy Number One steps into the living room. Her smile is still in place, and I continue to wonder why.

"Who is this?" I ask Crazy Number One. "Why is she here?"

"Chelsea, be polite." Her answering tone is still gracious, but beneath the surface is a deadly note.

Crazy Number One sits next to Daisy. Her short black hair stands in stark contrast with our visitor's. Black, I think sourly, the color of her soul. I take a deep, calming breath, knowing if I'm not nicer I'll pay for it later.

"Who are you?" I say, my tone lighter.

Daisy smiles at the change. "I'm Mrs. Fuller. I'm just dropping by to see how you like your new home."

My heart squeezes. This is a social worker. Not the one who left me in this wrenched place, but someone entirely new. Coming by to see how I'm doing with my foster parents. I stare at for blankly for a minute.

Daisy waits. When I remain silent, she bends down to pick up her bag. The second her eyes leave my face, Crazy Number One shoots me a death glare. A warning, spoken with no words. There doesn't need to be.

_Be good, _it says, _Make nice with Mrs. Fuller. Pretend you love it here. Or else. _I swallow against a lump in my throat, hating the surge of fear her looks can inspire within me. I wish I was stronger, but fear is always sneaking up on me when it can hurt me the most.

I nod once at Crazy Number One, indicating that I understood her loud and clear. Daisy's still rummaging around in her bag, and I take her distraction as an opportunity to pick my words out carefully.

A lie, not the truth. It has to be the right lie, though, because untruths can be easily snowballed. What I wouldn't give to tell Daisy the truth. That I hate it here, that I hate the Crazies and all the work they make me do, that I hate my life in general. But she wouldn't believe me about the manual labor ("They're good, kind people," the first social worker had told me.), and would suggest counseling for my depressing thoughts.

And even if Daisy did believe me, who knows what family of nutcases they'll put me with next? She finally finds what she's looking for in the painfully bright yellow bag. A pack of gum. She holds it out to me with a grin. I mentally calculate if it's physically possible to maim someone with gum.

"Care for a piece?" she asks. "Gum always helps me think."

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. Yes, I want to say, gum makes all of life's problems better. I don't like the way she talks to me. Her voice is too warm and sugary, and she talks like I'm mentally handicapped.

Like I'm stupid because I'm so quiet.

Well, Miss Daisy, I think, if you were in my situation, you wouldn't be overly chatty either. Crazy Number One flashes me another look. Biting the inside of my cheek, I lean forward and take a piece, mumbling a thank you.

I unwrap the square, stuff it in my mouth, and begin to chew. Bursts of orange fill my mouth, and I actually like it. A long minute passes.

"Are you ready to talk now?" Daisy asks quietly.

I nod, though more than anything, I want to leap up and bolt out the door and never come back. "I'm alright," I say.

Crazy Number One glares over Daisy's shoulder, and I know my answer is not enough.

"Are you happy here? Are you working on getting over your problems? Mona says that you've stopped seeing the school counselor." Daisy frowns.

I summon all my strength. I push aside all my mental agony. And then I smile as hugely as I can at the social worker.

"Yes, everything's going well. I've stopped seeing the counselor because I no longer think it's really necessary. I'm getting better," I lied.

Lie, lie, lie. There is no bit of truth in my words. If the TV came on right now, and a newsman announced a comet was on its way to destroy the Earth and everyone on it, I would get up and dance on the coffee table.

Daisy nods, because this is exactly the answer she wants to here. "That's good, Chelsea. But it's important to remember not to take things too fast. Maybe you should see your school counselor for a little longer. She said you two didn't really discuss anything."

I resist the urge to punch her in the face. I will _not _go back to the counselors. All I want is to be left alone. I can handle everything else. Why can't they at least give me that? There's no point in lying to Daisy about going back. Eventually, the counselor would tell Crazy Number One I wasn't seeing her, and Crazy Number One would tell Daisy.

It's a vicious cycle.

I take a deep breath. It takes everything I have to remain polite. "I would really rather not."

I know that Crazy Number One will punish me later for not agreeing with Daisy, but I don't care. At least, not right now. She purses her lips in indecision for a second, obviously deciding whether or not to push it.

I give her a warning look, and she backs off.

"Alright, then," she agrees reluctantly. "I suppose it's your decision."

She turns to Crazy Number One. "How have things been for you, Mona? Has Chelsea been behaving?"

I grit my teeth, beyond infuriated now. They're talking about me like I'm not even here, like I'm five years old instead of almost seventeen.

Crazy Number One smiles. "It's been wonderful. Chelsea is an angel. I can't imagine life without her."

I snort quietly before I can stop myself, and then I slap a hand over my mouth in horror. Daisy either doesn't hear it or ignores it, but Crazy Number One's eye twitches. The only think you can't live without, I shout at her mentally, is the fat check you get from social services for supposedly taking care of me!

"That's marvelous," Daisy says.

I can't imagine anything not being "wonderful" in this woman's world. She probably sleeps in a canopy bed and frolics through flowers every afternoon.

"Yes," I manage, "It is."

"How's school going?" she asks, leaning back in the couch, as if we're old friends.

I swallow back a stream of curses at her interrogation. I'm about to reply, when Crazy Number One interrupts.

"Actually, I was going to get some refreshment for us while we chat, Mrs. Fuller. Chelsea, would you please help me with them?" She stands and starts heading toward the kitchen without waiting for an answer.

Slowly, I get to my feet and follow her, like a dog following its master. When we step into the kitchen, Crazy Number One goes the refrigerator and pulls a pitcher of lemonade from the second shelf. She's quiet as she does so.

Letting me stand before her for a little while, tormented by the suspense. When three big glasses of the beverage has been poured, she places the pitcher back into the fridge and spins around.

She grips the tops of my arms in both hands, and her voice is a low hiss. "I don't like how you're acting so far with this social worker, Chelsea. I have a nice long list of chores in mind as punishment. Act any worse, and dinner will be gone, too. Don't embarrass me."

She lets go of my arms, and I wince as the blood begins to flow through them again. I know she won't slap me now because it'll leave a bright red mark on my cheek, but that doesn't stop me from flinching whenever she moves.

She shoves two glasses into my hands and points to the doorway.

"I'll be out in a minute," she spits, "Go make nice with Mrs. Fuller. And don't think I can't watch you from in here."

Somehow, it wouldn't surprise me if she could see through walls and ate children in the night.

"Yes, ma'am," I reply.

I turn and begin trudging toward the doorway. As I walk, my eyes dart to the drawer next to the microwave. I know for a fact that's where Crazy Number One keeps all her medicines, whether it's prescription or just regular Tylenol.

She keeps it locked, thinking I don't know the key is hidden under her mattress. But I do, and I could take anything anytime wished, within reason. And I've thought about it, too. I've thought about snatching one of those big orange prescription bottles, locking myself in the bathroom and swallowing every last one.

I've imagined Crazy Number One's horror when she gets in the room, only to discover my dead body on her floor. I've thought about the fact that no one would miss me. The idea has tempted me on more than one occasion, and it still crosses my mind occasionally.

But, as usual, I banish it to the deepest corners of my mind. Only a coward would seek that way out. And I am not a coward. I intend to see this life through till the end, no matter what ugly surprises might be lurking around the next corner.

As far as I'm concerned, taking the ultimate step in ended my own life is the same as letting the Crazies win this bizarre game we're playing. I go back into the living room, hand Daisy the glass, and start my show anew.

**OoOoOoO**

Daisy doesn't leave until six o'clock in the evening, a half hour after Crazy Number Two gets home.

When he does, she had to talk to him for a long time, too, though it was getting pretty evident that her presence was annoying Crazy Number One. Every so often, her smile would slip, and irritation would shine in her eyes.

As good as she is at keeping up a charade, she's not perfect at it. I'm not, either – I snapped at Daisy a few more times throughout our chat. I didn't mean to. It was like she knew just what to say to push my buttons, what questions and comments would drag the rudest comments out of me.

I made the fatal mistake of telling her that I thought the house was too cold when Daisy commented she was a little chilly. Crazy Number One's glower had been strong enough to make a thin layer of ice form in my heart.

Before Daisy leaves, she bends down to give me a big huge, saying she's happy that I'm happy. I force my stiff arms to hug her back, though I feel like crying into her shoulder. She smells like honey.

She gives me one last smile, and then she's out the door, leaving me with the Crazies and their horrible lies. Crazy Number Two walks to Crazy Number One and kisses her on the cheek. The scene makes me want to vomit. But, then again, I'd be the one scrubbing it out of the carpet.

"How did that go?" Crazy Number Two asks, his eyes flickering to me once. Suspicion lingers in his eyes, and I want to spit on him.

His hair is a dark, dirty blonde, reflecting the thoughts in his dark, dirty mind. His eyes are a flat gray color, and his voice has a tone in it that's capable of slipping under my skin and freezing my blood.

"Terribly. Chelsea can't act worth a damn." Crazy Number One shakes her head sourly, and Crazy Number Two pats her hand comfortingly.

"I'm sure she'll do better next time," he said curtly. He turns his head and lets his burning gray gaze fall on me.

"Won't you, Chelsea?"

As usual, I shiver under his eyes. "Yes, sir," I reply professionally.

"But for now," he continues, "it's time to reap the consequences of your actions, isn't it?"

I hate it when he acts me questions like this. It's the most demeaning thing I can think of, agreeing with him that I deserved to be punished when I know I don't.

"Yes, sir."

Crazy Number One picks up a piece of paper from the end table and hands it to me. "Today's chores," she explains, "I typed it up _before _Mrs. Fuller visited. After you're done with that one, I have a second list for you. And I don't think you're entitled to dinner after the way you've behaved."

I take the paper from her.

"Isn't that right?" Crazy Number Two asks.

"Yes, sir."

"Go on, then," he says quietly.

I swallow hard, and look down at my list.

**OoOoOoO**

I'm up until three in the morning with Crazy Number One's lists. They entail hard, physical labor. The very last one was scrubbing the linoleum flooring. I finished it around two, but Crazy Number One told me to re-do it.

Her sleeping and working schedule is messed up, so I never know when she's slinking around the house. The hardest one was doing the dishes, because I have to see the morsels left on the Crazy's plates.

I have to bear the smell of food making my stomach clench painfully. I'd sneak out every night and hunt for something to eat if my room wasn't up in the attic. Leaping out my window would be certain death, or at least some broken bones.

When I finally collapse onto the bed in the small attic, I feel so tired that my thoughts are jumbling together almost drunkenly. I whimper a little, because I know I have to be up in three hours, and I'm going to be terribly sore.

I barely have time to get my shoes off before unconsciousness claims me.

The sound of my alarm going off greets me precisely three hours later. I moan, bash the off button, and sit up. The early sunlight splashing through the window to my right is unwelcome; I want a thick cloud of comforting darkness surrounding me.

I squeeze my eyes shut, knowing that if I let myself stay in bed one more second I'll fall back to sleep. And I certainly can't do that, because I know for a fact Crazy Number One isn't working today.

A full summer passed where school was out, and I had to live here in this house alone with her for the season. It was utter hell. Her lists got increasingly longer, her punishments progressively more brutal, and her voice shaper and shaper.

She seemed incredibly irritated by my presence, though all I did was work for her. I sit up and attempt to rub the sleep from my eyes. I blink, and glance around my barren attic room. A bed. An alarm clock. A tiny dresser for my clothes.

That's it. I get out of bed, swaying a little on my feet, and make it to the drawers. I pull out a white t-shirt and a pair of tattered black jeans. Who knows where the Crazies got them from – I took whatever I could get.

I go downstairs, tie my hair up, slip on my shoes and go into the kitchen. The Crazies are both sitting at the table together. They don't glance up or acknowledge my presence in any way, but a box of Lucky Charms, a bowl and a spoon have been laid to rest on the counter.

Apparently, I worked hard enough for breakfast last night. I stumble to the food, pouring the cereal to the very brim of the bowl, and adding the milk last. I go to sit at the third chair at the table, because it is my place.

Or so they tell me.

But as I'm setting the bowl down, clumsiness gets the better of me and the cereal sloshes out one side. A few marshmallows land on the sleeve of Crazy Number Two's crisp white work shirt. His eyes flash with anger, and his knuckles turn white as he clenches the handle of his coffee mug.

"Damn it, Chelsea, pay attention to what you're doing," he snaps, brushing the food off him.

Crazy Number One doesn't even look up from her newspaper. I release the breath I've been holding, and I nod.

"I'm sorry," I say quietly.

Crazy Number Two huffs, and goes back to drinking his coffee. I swallow heavily. He's never hit me before, but sometimes I worry I'll push him too far one day and he'll snap. Thankfully, though, that day is not today. I'm incredibly careful for the rest of my meal. When I'm done, I put the bowl in the sink, mutter a goodbye, and go to retrieve my backpack from the hall.

I take a huge breath, hoping the cold morning air will help me wake up. A thin layer of fog floats from my mouth when I exhale, and I hope it doesn't snow too much this winter. Shoveling it is a real pain. I glance at the neighboring driveway, and see the little blue car in its usual place.

Vaughn hasn't left yet. He doesn't have to go yet, because he has wheels. I can drive legally, of course, but in order to start at Driver's Ed, a fee has to be paid, and you have to have your own vehicle. Neither of those things is remotely within my grasp.

I have to leave for school early because I'm walking. I tentatively approached the subject with Crazy Number One weeks ago, and she burst out laughing like I'd just asked her the funniest thing ever. Her laughter was an ugly thing to listen to. Even more so because I knew her answer would be cruel.

"Why would we let you drive?" she'd sneered. "So you can wreck the car and kill everyone inside like your Daddy did?"

I'd flinched away from her, and retreated away quickly, not caring if she punished me for being disrespectful. That was probably the most malicious thing she'd ever said to me. I seriously consider skipping school altogether today.

I have no idea where I would go, but anywhere would be better than school. But then I start worrying the Principle or someone else will call Crazy Number One and alert him about my absence, and I start heading back to the damned school.

Every move I make in this life is controlled. I make no decisions for myself. Everyone else makes them for me, based either on what they think is best for me or what they think will benefit themselves the most.

By the time I get to school, I only have to hang around for a little while before the bell rings. In Mrs. Stone's math class, I am even quieter than usual. Once, when she calls on me, I ignore her altogether, even though I know she's calling my name.

At this point, I'm so exhausted I can't muster the energy to care if she sends me to Principle Terry. But she doesn't, and I can't help thinking it has something to do with the dark circles and hollow look in my eyes.

In English, I nearly fall asleep on Mr. Walter's next poem. He probably notices this, but he doesn't say anything to me.

After class, though, he pulls me aside and asks, "Chelsea, you look terrible. Is everything alright?"

I stare at him, sure my eyes are lifeless and my voice is dead. "I'm fine, Mr. Walter."

He sighs and shakes his head. "You wouldn't tell me if you weren't."

I purse my lips, debating. Finally, I reply, "No. I wouldn't."

"You could talk to the counselors," he offered.

I can't even muster the proper annoyance. "No. I'm done with shrinks."

Mr. Walter nods, his expression thoughtful. "If there's anything I can do . . ."

I smile a little. "Thanks. I appreciate that. I have to go – Mrs. Fields can get mean."

"I know." Mr. Walter makes a sour face, and I chuckle.

In History, Matthew Harris is evidentially tired of poking me. Every so often, when the teacher isn't looking, he leans forward and gives my ponytail a sharp yank. I whip around and glare at him a few times, but he looks away like he doesn't know what I'm thinking about.

The fifth time it happens, I yelp out loud and my eyes well up with tears. Everyone turns to stare at me, and Mrs. Fields glowers meanly.

"What's happened now, Chelsea?" she asks.

I shake my head. "Nothing."

The rest of the hour passes with me imagining ways I can mutilate Matthew. I know I can't ever get into a fight with him, but someday I might snap and do something I regret. Lunch passes in a blur, because I hide in one of the bathroom stalls and doze against the wall, though I'm still hungry. I ate yesterday, so I need to keep my lunch money today for my jar in the attic.

My feet drag when I enter the girls' locker room. For once, I don't want be here – more physical exertion is the last thing I want. After we all change, Mr. Fredrick and the other coach, a short woman with a lip piercing, order us to the field.

On my way there, I yawn hugely and almost fall flat on my face. Thankfully I don't, because the sharp gravel beneath my shoes probably would have left numerous cuts all over my face. The group of students stands by the track and waits for the teacher's instructions.

Mr. Fredrick then announces that we're going to hike through the surrounding trees outside the school's campus. Behind the track, there's a forest with a long, snaking path that travels over roots and rocks and other evil things.

We're to run until we come into view of the lake that resides somewhere in the forest, and then turn back. When we're through, we can laze about the field until the period ends. But here's the worst part: we have to have a partner.

Someone to make sure we don't fall off the trail into poison ivy or something. I try to remember the last time Mr. Fredrick assigned us an activity that required partners, but I fail. The knowledge that I'll have to run sickens me.

The poison ivy actually isn't looking too bad.

Sighing, I look around for the person who will get stuck with me as a partner. Probably be labeled for the rest of eternity as the one who was forced to work with _her _(a short, still cruel nickname for me).

When my eyes find no one, I moan inwardly and begin to do a few stretches. I'll avoid throbbing muscles if I can. I close my eyes as I move, not really paying attention to what I'm doing. I'm almost in a dreamlike state when I feel someone's eyes on me.

I peel back my eyelids to see whose staring. When I do, my breath catches in my throat. The first thing I see is the blinding flash of amethyst, set into a pale face with equally light hair. I blink at Vaughn, and then glance over his shoulder. Everyone else has a partner. I look back at him, waiting for him to say something.

When he doesn't, I prompt, "Yes?"

He frowns, irritated at having to speak directly to me. "We're going to work together," he says. His voice is deep and gruff. It makes me shiver, but not in a bad way.

"We are?" My eyebrows raise in question. I don't like the way he phrased that.

"Yes. We have to," he amends.

I shake my head tiredly. "No, we don't. Mr. Fredrick can take a flying leap."

I think about sneaking off to the bathrooms and dozing against my wall again. Amusement sparks in Vaughn's eyes.

"My thoughts exactly. But I can't afford to get caught ditching." He sighs deeply. "So please work with me."

Even though it should be a request, it's not. It's just another command. I hesitate, knowing I don't really owe it to him. He's irritated me for quite a long time, so it might be nice to return the favor.

But I don't want to leave him here all alone – it's a mean thing to do, and since we seem so much alike, I don't want to be cruel.

So, I nod. "Alright. I'll have to go slow, though," I say.

I don't offer a reason why.

He shrugs. "It doesn't matter."

The tone of his voice makes me wonder if anything does.

We line up at the beginning of the path, and Mr. Fredrick blows his whistle. I start jogging evenly, using as little brain power as possible. We soon fall behind, but Vaughn doesn't seem to care.

He stares straight ahead as usual, making no effort to speak to me at all. I glance over at him occasionally, and I can't help but notice that he has a nice, strong build. Lean and long, but not overly muscular, the way some of the guys in the weight room can be.

And while the color of his hair might be out of place on some people, it seems to fit him well. He looks much older than he is, a fact I'm sure he takes advantage of often.

After a while, I yawn, wishing I could stop. The distance we've been assigned is a considerable length, both coming and going. Normally this wouldn't bother me, but since fatigue is settled on me like a physical weight, I soon find myself longing to stop.

Beside me, Vaughn doesn't seem tired; he draws quick, even breaths. I don't really want to irritate him further, so I keep pace. We've been running for a good five minutes when my foot catches on the root of a tall tree.

I curse myself mentally as I fall forward. Vaughn pauses, jumps forward, and catches me before I splat on the ground. I'm thankful, because if I had fallen, I'm not sure I would have gotten up.

His arm is around my waist, and I think about that the fact that I don't really mind it being there. Usually when people touch me, my first instinct is to flinch away from the contact.

It scares me to feel this way, so I step away from him quickly and say, "Sorry."

"Be careful," he grumbles.

He shifts his weight from foot to foot, clearly uncomfortable. But I need a second to gather my wits. When I'm through, I give the okay to start moving again. I'm careful to spy any evil roots this time.

As we start moving, though, I make the mistake of muttering "Stupid Crazies" under my breath.

Vaughn turns his head, and raises one eyebrow. "Crazies?" he asks.

My face flushes, and I curse myself again in my head. "Nothing, it's nothing," I reply, "Just stuff at home."

He nods, and is silent again, like I knew he would be. If I don't offer more information, he's not going to ask for it. The rest of the run is spent in silence. The only interesting point is when we're coming back to the field.

When I glance at him, I see that he's looking at me. He looks away the second I meet his eyes, but just the fact that he was looking makes my heart squeeze. This freaks me out further. I make a mental note to stay far away from him.

I don't need strange feelings to work out. When we get back to the field, we part ways without saying goodbye. I sit down on the grass and breathe deeply, resisting the urge to lie down and go to sleep.

When Mr. Fredrick blows his whistle again, I get up and go to the locker room. On my way, I pass Vaughn again.

And I can't help but wonder if I'll keep my promise to leave him alone.


	4. Fight

**3: Fight**

"_**Victory is always possible for the person who refuses to stop fighting." – Napoleon Hill**_

Once again, I walk very slowly on the way back to the gray house I refuse to call mine.

My stomach seems to snarl with every step I take. It was just plain annoying during school today, but right now it's moaning like a dying animal. An angry dying animal, lashing out with razor-sharp claws to inflict much pain on my twisting muscles.

Gritting my teeth, I try in vain to block images of particularly appealing foods from my mind: cookies, cheeseburgers, apples, breads . . .

Sighing, I shake my head sadly. I can't afford to waste the money that's currently residing in my jeans' pocket. I've asked myself on several occasions, what exactly I plan to do with the money I've saved (which isn't much).

And I can never come up with a real answer. I just have this terrible feeling that one day I'll need it more than anything. Once I'm eighteen, the Crazies don't get checks from social services anymore.

What happens then? Part of me wants so badly to be older, to be out of the freaking foster care system. I've always despised it. But the other part – the more sensible, practical part – is terrified at the thought of becoming an adult.

You can get loans for colleges and stuff, but I'm not really sure how most of that type of thing works. And, besides that, you have to be accepted into the school. Most colleges will look at your high school report card, or even further back than that.

So I've pretty much already shot myself in the foot with that. There's very few things in my life that I'm sure of, so when I do know something for sure, it sticks in my mind and my heart and stays there.

One thing I just _know, _a deep, gut-wrenching feeling, is what I fear the most: the future. For a very long time, I've just sort of glided through life, never really trying, just focusing on getting through one day after the next.

Anything else seems like a close to impossible task. If I have difficulty getting through one Monday, what makes me think I could handle contemplating the next thirty years of my life? A tiny little voice in the back of my mind whispers that I might not live that long.

Who really knows? All I do know is that fate's never been kind to me. Why would it start now, or at any point in the future? I just have to take what it hands me, deal with it, suck it up, and try to avoid any unnecessary painful emotions that might come with it.

One thing I've learned is that emotions are dangerous. Especially things like sympathy, hope and love. None of those lead to anything good. When I feel sympathy, pity for someone else, it makes me want to talk to them.

It makes me want to be their friend. I want to sit by them for hours. With hope . . . that's almost self-explanatory, isn't it? Hope leads to disappointment. A nearly constant feeling in my heart. I can't even begin to list the amount of times it's happened. I can't bash hope completely, though.

Hope is the only thing that keeps me alive.

Just knowing that there's a _slight _chance that I'm wrong, that maybe I'll become someone people will want to talk to and look at, that maybe I'll _be _somebody, gives me the strength to go on. It's the only thing that keeps me from breaking into Crazy Number One's medicine drawer and swallowing every single one of her pills.

Still, I'm very careful about what I hope for. Maybe subconsciously I hope for things like happiness and money and joy. But right now, I can only hope for little things, like getting dinner or Mrs. Fields getting sick and having a substitute teacher.

Things that are _realistic. _And love . . . well, I can't really say it leads to bad things. Because I've never experienced it. Not really. I mean, I must have loved my parents, before they died, but I hardly remember either one of them. I can only recall a few things, like the fact that my father had a nice smile and my mother always wore strong-smelling perfumes.

It's sort of strange that I can see small things in my mind like that, but anything bigger and my brain just dies. Once, when I was eight, I destroyed an entire set of glass plates. I threw them all around the room of the house I was currently residing in.

I remember that I loved the sound of them shattering. It made me feel good to know that I wasn't the only thing breaking inside and out. But I started throwing them because I was so angry I couldn't really remember my parents.

They were the only people in the world who ever truly loved me, and I can't even _remember _them. So, I don't exactly have a memory of truly loving someone. Even when I was little, I was always wary, always alert. I never let anyone in, and I liked it that way.

Loving someone would be dangerous for me; I can't ever do it. Not until I'm in a much better place than I am now. Which brings me back to my original question: what am I going to do with the little money I've saved?

I bite my lip as my stomach snarls again, giving me its own loud opinion. I shrug a little to myself as I walk. When I need to use it, I'll know. To distract myself from my hunger, I look around and admire the sun, shining brightly in the sky.

The air is crisp and cool; inhaling deeply helps clear my head. I have the sudden urge to take off my shoes and stroll around someone's yard, just to feel blades of green grass between my toes. But just as I stop to consider this more deeply, a smell hits me that makes every other thought leap out of my head.

It's heavenly, sweet, and most definitely delicious. It makes my mouth fill with saliva and the dying animal in my stomach try and claw its way out.

Without my conscious decision, my feet begin moving me in the direction of the smell, not caring if I have to walk through fire to get to it. I move slowly down the street until I reach a mint green house two doors down from my original location.

I scan the front of it – big black door, pretty white mailbox, _Home Sweet Home _mat – and discover that what I'm seeking isn't here. The blinds are closed, so I know no one sees me slip around the house.

There's a big wooden fence running the perimeter of its backyard, and it's higher than my head. Pursing my lips, I go to the gate, praying it's unlocked. It is. The yard is pretty, with neatly trimmed grass and dark autumn leaves scattered about.

My eyes find an open back window, and I nearly trip over my own feet in my anticipation to get to it. Because, housed on the windowsill, is the most beautiful pie I have ever seen. The smell of cinnamon and apples fills my nose, driving me crazy.

I look inside the window; there's a large kitchen with numerous brown cupboards and shiny granite countertops. And, best of all, there's no current occupants of this room. No witnesses.

Smiling hugely to myself, I slip the pie off the windowsill and race back to the gate with it. Once outside, I push it closed quietly and run to the sidewalk. I pause, unsure of where to take my prize. Its weight in my hands is the very best thing in the world.

I walk for a little while – not too long because I can't bear waiting – until I finally settle down. Right on the sidewalk, in front of a nauseatingly bright pink house. I don't care if anybody sees me. I don't have any sort of silverware, except my pocketknife.

I carry it around in my pocket, though I know I would be expelled if any of the school staff found out. Carrying around any sort of weapon is big no-no. Out of all my meager possessions, it's probably my most treasured.

I pull out the little blade and cut the pie into neat pieces. Then I scoop one out with my hand and bite into it. The taste explodes in my mouth, and I swear my eyes roll back in my head a little. I haven't had pie like this in a very long time.

I haven't had anything that tastes this good in forever. I almost want to start weeping right there on the sidewalk, but then I catch myself acting too sentimental and scold myself to stop rejoicing. It's just a pie, I reason. And I should feel bad for stealing it. Except I don't. I need it much more than the makers.

I've stolen many things in my life, but it doesn't make me feel guilty. If I take something, it's because I need it, not because I want it. Taking something just because you want it is wrong. I've done it before, and it makes my heart heavy in my chest.

I can't use the stolen objects because they seem to be tainted with injustice. I munch for a long time on the pie. I finish a little over half; by now my stomach threatens to burst if I take just one more bite.

It's hurting a bit, but the discomfort brings me great joy – it reminds me that I've eaten. I contemplate taking the remains back to the mint house, but dismiss it quickly. They'll just make another – why would they want the leftovers of this one?

I want to save it pretty badly, but I don't have anything to wrap it up with and I can't have the few things in my backpack covered with cinnamon and gooey apples. Reluctantly, I leave it by a stop sign, hoping that a stray dog or cat will sniff it out and get a treat.

There's a spring in my step as I approach the gray house. The food in my stomach has put a smile on my face – not even the Crazies will be able to bring me down today. If they threaten me with no dinner, I'll just smile smugly inside, because I don't need it.

I realize that pie's not the most nutritious thing to be eating, but I take what I can get. The school cafeteria's loaded with bruised apples and little bags of carrots I can swipe for better eating habits later. Today, I'm extra careful about where I step on my way to the door.

Once again, Plushy's lying against the Toyota's tire. I frown, more than a little jealous of her ability to just lie in the sun all day, with no day to day worries dragging her down. I'm careful not to disturb her today. I'm later than usual today, so Crazy Number One is probably eyeing the window, waiting for my appearance.

She knows that I lag when I'm walking back, but thankfully she doesn't comment unless I'm _really _slow. Just before I reach up to knock, I glance sideways at the next door driveway.

Vaughn's little blue car is right where it usually is, and I find myself wondering if he'll go out again today. Hopefully a little less pissed off than he was yesterday. Irritated with myself for caring about his moods, I rap three times on the door. Then I shove my hands in my pockets and set about creating the blankest expression I can manage on my face.

The door opens slowly, forebodingly. It makes me shiver a little. When it's fully open, Crazy Number One glares down at me, her lips set into a hard line.

A nervous chill runs up my spine – usually she just looks at me professionally and hands me one of her lists, before walking away and leaving me to it. I do get the occasionally nasty look when I'm being particularly annoying (according to her), but if she glowers at me right when I get to the gray house, I know there's trouble brewing.

I have to learn to recognize little signs like this – it makes my life much easier. She steps back and lets me come in without saying anything. Her arms are crossed over her chest. Her voice is flat, but there's anger burning in her ugly mud-colored eyes.

"Is there something you'd like to tell me?" she asks.

I notice that her nails today are long, bright and red. Must have had them done today at some salon. This is another trick – mentally noting little things like nails helps me focus on something other than the intense expectancy balling in my stomach.

Well, maybe it's closer to nausea. I frown, and quickly go through several different possible answers in my head, wondering which would appease her the most. Seconds pass, and I can tell she's getting angrier at my lack of response.

I can't come up with what she wants, so I'm forced to reply, "I don't know what you're talking about."

Crazy Number One inhales sharply. "Think long and hard," she presses. Her foot begins tapping on the floor.

Again, I search for an answer. Is she finally coming down on me for taking so long to get back to the gray house? I mentally cringe; it's my only peace during the day. Taking it away would be the same as killing me.

If this isn't her problem, though, I don't want to draw attention to it. So I steel myself, and repeat, "I don't know."

My voice is also flat and unfeeling, the way we always are with each other. I refuse to let her see that her words are making me flounder like a confused, frightened fish. Crazy Number One shakes her head, reaches out, and latches her long red nails onto my arm.

Wordlessly, she pulls me along behind her as she descends the stairs. Resisting is pointless; as is telling her that her nails are digging into my skin and stinging. Downstairs, there's a small family room with two bookshelves – housing lots of biographies of people I've never cared about – a TV, a couch, three comfortable chairs, and a window.

My brows pull together in confusion – where is she taking me? But when she starts heading to the big white door next to the TV, my heart sinks into my toes. I know. I know what she discovered – what she's angry about.

Crazy Number One pushes the door open and drags me into the basement. My heart is pounding by the time we reach the ratty old sofa in the corner. Crazy Number one drops my arm, bends, and filches a jar out from underneath.

_My _jar.

The only thing left that gave me a small sense of security. I should have known I wouldn't have it for long. My worries have been the wrong ones. Instead of pondering what I was going to do with the money, I should have focused more fully on _protecting _it.

I had been stupid to assume the jar would be safe here. The Crazies hardly ever go into their basement – and why would they? It's a cold, small, dark room that smells – but that doesn't mean they _never _would.

For a fraction of a second, I wonder what Crazy Number One was doing feeling around underneath the couch. But I quickly decide it doesn't matter. The only thing that does matter is the fact that she found it and – somehow – I will have to deal with its loss.

And learn from my mistake. In the future – assuming there is one for me – I will hide things much better. She shakes the jar in front of my face; the sound of coins knocking together seems to taunt me.

Crazy Number One has managed to calm herself; her face is smooth and professional, which makes me feel better in a strange way, because this is something I would normally expect from her.

When she's doing out of character things, I have no way of knowing what's going to happen next.

"Care to explain this?" Her voice, too, is calm. For a minute, my eyes dart from her face, to the jar. What is there to explain?

"I've been saving," I said finally. I reach up to take it from her hands, but she snatches it back, as I knew she would.

"Saving what?" she asks.

I grit my teeth. "Lunch money."

"It's not for saving," she snaps, "it's for _lunch._" She enunciates the word like I'm mentally handicapped.

"I know," I say quietly, "But I didn't think . . ."

"Yes. You didn't think," Crazy Number One inserts. She brushes a strand of her inky black hair behind an ear.

Anger boils up inside me, and it's all I can do not to tackle her to the floor and yank the jar from her grasp. The consequences for that would be horrifying. Before I can stop myself, I blurt out, "I need it."

"For what?" She asks.

"The future," I respond.

"If I were you," she says, her voice a soft hiss, "the present would concern me more than the future."

At this moment, it does. But I'm not about to tell her that. My usual sense of defiance kicks in and my chin jerks up arrogantly as I stare into her eyes, knowing my fury is burning brightly in them. And, as usual, it is my fatal act. Crazy Number One lifts the hand that is not holding the jar, and backhands me across the face.

One of her rings – possibly the dark green emerald set into a beautiful gold band – cuts it my cheek. I flinch back, fingering the wound. Droplets of blood decorate my fingertips when I look at them. Crazy Number One frowns – she didn't mean to cut me, I'm sure.

It will take days to heal. It will show. People will wonder how I got it.

She shakes her head angrily, holds the jar close, and says, "Go into the living room."

Still holding my cheek, I turn and head to my destination. I should be grateful, really. Slapping is the only form of physical violence the Crazies inflict upon me. They've never punched, or kicked or spat on me.

Their mental and emotional abuse is what hits me harder than any smack ever could, though. Crazy Number One fishes out a sheet of paper and hands it to me. "Your chores for the day," she says. I nod stiffly, but I don't move.

Her tone suggests that she isn't finished.

"I don't ever want to see you doing this again," Crazy Number One commands.

Again, I nod.

"I'm serious, Chelsea. If you ever do this again, I'll find out. And the repercussions won't be pretty." Her eyes flash dangerously.

"I understand," I say flatly.

She nods and goes upstairs. I stand in the living room for a long time, staring blankly at nothing for a long time. But eventually I begin completing my list. My movements are robotic – my cheek stings.

The day passes much like any other. A while after dinner – which I have amazingly been given – Crazy Number Two comes into my little attic room. Wordlessly, he hands me a tube of something.

"Neosporin," he says, "for your cut."

"Fine," I say, clutching the tube in my fist.

I hate both of them. I hate, hate, _hate _both of the Crazies. I wait for a lecture about my 'wrongful' actions, but he only turns and goes back downstairs.

I breathe a sigh of relief.

**OoOoOoO**

The next day, I go into the bathroom to examine my cheek. The line is short, but it's red and ugly. Sighing, I turn away from the mirror and go get my backpack. At school, the morning drags as per usual.

Mrs. Stone approaches me after class and asks me how I'm doing so far with the study guide. I look at her with dull eyes. More than anything, I just want her to leave me alone, to just forget about ever teaching me mathematics.

I want to scream at her about how much I despise the subject. I want to tell her that even if I did, I wouldn't be able to focus on it. Crazy Number One's chores exhaust me, as does my depression, and I have no energy left for homework at all.

The only reason I've passed some of my classes up until now is because I'm fairly intelligent. Or, at least, that's what I like to think. I take a deep breath. I know that if I tell her I haven't even started the bloody thing, she will lecture me again for however long.

I have no desire to stay here, so I lie. "It's great, Mrs. Stone."

She smiles back, looking pleased. Perhaps she feels like she's making progress with me. The idea makes me smile grimly. Turning, I heard to Mr. Walter's class. I'm getting really sick of reading poetry, so I let my mind drift more than I usually would in my English class.

Mr. Walter glances at me occasionally, but he doesn't call on me. Maybe he realizes how preoccupied I am. For whatever the reason, I am thankful. The hour passes too quickly – soon I am forced to go to Mrs. Field's U.S. History class, and endure Matthew Harris's poking and prodding.

I grit my teeth as something sharp runs down my back, prodding along my spine. I'm hoping that, if I ignore him, he'll see I'm not worth bothering and leave me alone. Doesn't that usually work? Apparently not.

When he gets bored with the sharp thing, Matthew goes back to tugging on my hair. I have to grip the desk to stop myself from whirling around mauling him. Like before, the only reason I make it through the hour is my overactive imagination.

By the end of my little fantasy, Matthew is in no condition to return to school for at least a few weeks. The bell rings for lunch, and Mrs. Fields reminds the class of an upcoming test. She shoots me a glare on my way out the door.

I can't get into big trouble for returning her glower, so I do. My eyes narrow into slits and my fists clench at my sides. When I get to the lunchroom, I get in line. I have no doubt Crazy Number One was right about finding out if I didn't spend my money on food.

I don't know how she'd find out, but somehow, she would. I will give Crazy Number One this: she's smart. Smarter than Crazy Number Two, or anyone else I've ever met. Still, my stomach gurgles gratefully at the questionable burger on my tray, the little bag of carrots and the milk.

I head to my usual table and begin eating. Outside, it's raining heavily, reflecting my mood. I try to concentrate on the sound of droplets splattering on the windows instead of the chatter of my fellow high school students.

Behind me, a door opens. And, like before, I can recognize the new arrival quite easily. I watch him from the corner of my eye for a second – and then my attention is diverted elsewhere.

Standing right next to me – seemingly coming from nowhere – is a smiling Matthew Harris. His dirty blonde hair is falling into his eyes – a dull, flat brown – and his pants are somewhere around his knees. Sighing, I try again to ignore him altogether.

"Hey, Chelsea," Matthew says, like we're BFFs or something.

He reaches out and pokes my arm. I feel inferior sitting down while he stands, so I get to my feet, fully intending to keep my hands to myself. My rage is barely suppressed; my voice is a hiss.

"Stay away from me, Matthew Harris."

His eyebrows shoot up, and he pretends to be offended by my words. "I would, Chelsea, but see, you owe me."

I shoot him a suspicious glare. "_I _owe _you_?"

"Yes. I'm still waiting for that pencil you promised you would give me, after destroying my last one." His smirk is cocky.

I inhale deeply, and reply, "I have no intention of getting you anything. Maybe if you weren't harassing people with writing utensils, I wouldn't feel the need to destroy them."

He shrugs. "It was my pencil. You broke it. Replacement, please?"

I know he's just using this pencil thing to irritate me. Idly, I wonder if he's knows how much he's pushing my limits. I feel so close to snapping – my blood is sizzling with pure fury. I reach up, and stab one finger into his chest.

"Leave me the hell alone."

He pushes my hand away. "Fine. Don't give it to me. I'll go out tomorrow and buy some more. I can't wait to sharpen them."

That does it. All logical thought of being good and avoiding trouble leaps from my mind. The thought of bearing being prodded by Matthew for the rest of this wrenched year is too much. The final straw, really.

Bits of red surround Matthew as I look at him through a veil of fury. Without my conscious permission, my right hand has clenched into a fist. It rises into the air, comes backward – and then jerks forward with a surprising amount of force. I punch him right in the nose, as hard as I can.

At that moment, it seems like everyone in the cafeteria stops what they're doing to turn and zero in on the action. I feel a hundred pairs of eyes on me that moment, but I don't care. I did what I wanted.

And – for the moment – I don't care about the consequences. Matthew lets out a surprised yelp at my blow, and then he stumbles back, clutching his nose. All I can hope it that it's not broken. Blood is gushing from it at an alarming rate; pained tears come to his eyes.

Just because I'm already screwed, and my rage hasn't been fully released, I grab my milk carton and dump its contents on his head. A white stream runs down his face, onto his clothes, soaking him.

Nobody in the cafeteria moves, but the students eat up the scene. Matthew partially recovers after a moment; his eyes narrow. He steps forward and pushes me back violently with the hand that's not holding his nose.

He's strong, so I can't help but stagger back. I expect to fall, but then I bump into something. Or, rather, some_one. _I don't have to glance up to know how it is, but I do anyway. Vaughn stares down at me; and, in some corner of my mind, I make note of the fact that he looks almost disapproving.

Swallowing thickly, I rock back onto my feet, focusing on Matthew again. Across the room, I can see Mr. Bale – one of the school's dreaded counselors – making his way over to us. Making use of what little time he has left, Matthew charges me.

I brace myself, knowing full well that he intends to tackle me. But instead of that happening, I feel an arm encircle my waist. Surprised, I don't even have time to pull away before the arm jerks me back. Again, I stumble backwards.

Vaughn pushes me behind him, and Matthew stops mid-charge. Beyond shocked, I wait for what comes next. Matthew opens his mouth to speak – which is a stupid thing to do, since he knows blood will be running into it – but he doesn't get a word out.

Mr. Bale has reached us. "Break it up!" he barks.

He gives first me, then Matthew a pointed glare. "Fighting on school grounds is strictly forbidden. Get to the principal's office."

With my head held high, I move around Vaughn and do as ordered.

**OoOoOoO**

As Principle Terry promised the last time, I am hereby suspended for two weeks. Last time it was one. Next time it will be three. After that, I'm expelled. He seems to relish the word as he tells me this.

I don't really listen to his speech about how wrong fighting is and that there are always better ways to work out differences. Matthew gets suspended for a week, which makes me grin, since he's the only one with any real damage.

I can tell his nose isn't broken, which relieves me. He's got his head up with a bloody napkin wrapped around it. The sight gives me a strong sense of satisfaction.

"Chelsea, how many more times is this going to happen?" Principle Terry asks me, his voice exasperated.

I frown. "As long as people like _him _keep harassing me. You can't expect me to just sit by quietly and take his crap."

"If someone's bothering you, you should tell an adult."

I snort. "Why? Mrs. Fields hates me."

"She doesn't hate you, Chelsea. If you worked a little harder in her class, I assure you the two of you would get along."

"She never does the homework assignments," Matthew grumbles.

I flash him a glower, and he looks away. Good. I can tell he won't be aggravating me anymore.

"I know." Principle Terry shakes his balding head.

His beady eyes settle on me accusingly, but I have no answer for him. He is not worth my answers. I look out the window. He tries speaking to me again, but I ignore the sound of his voice.

Eventually, he leaves the office. I turn to Matthew. "Ever touch me again, and you'll have a lot more than a bloody nose to cry about," I threaten darkly.

He frowns, so I can tell he knows I'm not kidding. We spend the rest of the day here. When it finally comes to a close, I head into the parking lot. In some ways, I'm delighted to be away from here for two weeks.

But I know I'll have to be in the gray house for that long, too. The knowledge kills the delight quickly. I see Vaughn head toward his little blue car. My eyes follow him the whole time, willing him to meet my eyes.

He must know I'm staring, but he doesn't even glance at me. I linger in the lot, debating whether or not to approach him and ask about today. But then he's in his car, speeding away, and my window of opportunity is gone.

But the question I want to ask him is on my lips the whole way back to the gray house. It consumes my mind and eats up every other thought. It haunts me, screams at me.

_Why did you try to protect me? _


	5. Vow

**4: Vow**

"**There will be little rubs and disappointments everywhere, and we are all apt to expect too much; but then, if one ****scheme**** of happiness fails, human nature turns to another; if the first calculation is wrong, we make a second better: we find comfort somewhere . . .****" – **_**Jane Austen**_

The next two weeks at the house that is not mine doesn't turn out quite as horribly as I predicted.

Of course, it isn't easy. But I would be a true nutcase to expect any jolly good times with the Crazies. The most I can do is obey their every command quietly and try not to draw attention to myself. Just like in school, I try to blend. It's a bit easier when I'm surrounded by hundreds of other teenagers, but . . . I think I've gotten pretty good at the whole thing.

Blending in. Becoming invisible at will.

I apply this tactic as much as possible over the next two weeks of my life. For the most part, it seems to work. The first few days are hell, but I was expecting that. Both of the Crazies were furious when they found out about the fight at school and the two week long suspension.

"Now I'll have to cart her around everywhere I go," Crazy Number One spits, her eyes shining with rage.

"Why don't you just leave her at home?" Crazy Number Two snaps irritably. His eyes are glued to the television set, watching the game show channel.

"And leave her in the house by herself where she can do all sorts of nasty things? I think not." Crazy Number One shoots me a glance full of venom.

"She wouldn't." Crazy Number Two's eyes slide over to me, and the usual feeling of sickness descends upon me under his gaze.

It makes my skin crawl, the way he looks at me. Not with hatred, but with something sicker, more demented. At least Crazy Number One speaks her mind, and I can always tell how she's feeling about any given situation. Crazy Number Two, though, is impossible to read.

"Would you, Chelsea? You won't cause Mona and me any trouble while you're here at home, will you?" His voice is smooth, with an undertone I can't identify.

I shudder noticeably. "Of course not," I say quietly, respectfully.

He goes back to watching the television, which seems to infuriate Crazy Number One even more.

"Take your damned eyes away from the screen for five minutes, Jeff," she snarls.

"I would think you'd be happy, Mona. With Chelsea around during the day, you won't have to wait until she gets home. She can get up early and start her chores then. I think there should be extra long lists these two weeks; after all, we frown upon fighting in this household."

"He deserved it," I mutter before I can stop myself.

"What was that?"

"Nothing, sir."

"I thought so."

Crazy Number One grits her teeth and spins to face me, jabbing a finger in my direction. "You worthless little brat. You're always getting yourself kicked out of school and screwing with our lives, you know that? I can't stand to look at you. Get upstairs before I make you a new bed on the porch. I hear there's going to be a storm tonight."

Rebuttal would be suicidal at this point. All I can do is be thankful that no one has hit me in this delightful conversation. Defending my actions is also pointless; everything I do is wrong, no matter what reasons I might have had.

I chew the inside of my cheek as I make my way up the stairs and envision the next few months of my life. I'll manage to get out of these two weeks alive, after long hours of manual labor and a minimal amount of food – I'll have to see about sneaking out of the house occasionally to go hunting for something edible.

I'll go back to school and resolve not to beat the living hell out of the next idiot who insults me. I'll fail, and eventually I'll go through this whole punishment process again. If it doesn't stop, I'll get expelled, and the Crazies will be pissed if they have to put me in a different school or school district.

They'll come at me breathing fire and wielding machetes. The teachers and counselors will continue to try and get me to talk, and I will ignore them. Social workers will drop by occasionally to see how I'm doing, and I'll lie to them just like I did Daisy.

I moan a little to myself as I slip into bed, thinking about the length of those crisp, white papers I'm sure to receive every day for the rest of my life.

**OoOoOoOoO**

By the end of day three, every part of my body is aching. My back is stiff, my fingers are numb, and the base of my neck is in knots. They've worked me so hard it's difficult to move. All I can think about is how much it's going to suck to have to sit up.

I won't make it, I moan internally, I just won't. Let me die here in this bed. My eyes half close, and suddenly a dark shadow is standing over me. For a second, I delude myself into believe it's a merciful angel, come to take me away.

Of course, it's only Crazy Number One, staring down at me with her beady eyes. I blink up at her and imagine throwing her out of my attic window. I imagine the satisfying crunch of her bones as they meet the hard, unforgiving earth. It's enough to get me to smile.

"We're going out," Crazy Number One says, her voice emotionless as usual.

"Alright. Give me a minute," I say, "and I'll be down."

"Don't take forever."

I will her to fall down the stairs as she leaves my room, but I have no such luck. I will my aching limbs to do as my brain tells them to do, and I manage to stand. I tell myself to stop being such a baby, to take the pain and suck it up. It always helps. I yank on some clothes and find that it's _me _who almost falls face first down the stairs.

I think about how angry Crazy Number One would be if she had to pay to fix any injuries I might receive from it, and roll my eyes. She's standing in the middle of the living room with her purse clutched tightly in both hands.

"We're going to the store," she says.

I nod and glance towards the kitchen, silently asking permission.

"Go eat something," she tells me, mercifully.

I rush through a bowl of cereal, and my stomach still isn't full by the time I'm done, but I know she'll be aggravated if I take too long. I glance up at the clock and see it's very early in the day. I follow Crazy Number One out the door and down the steps of the porch, careful to avoid Plushy's sleeping form.

Almost reflexively, I glance at the house next door. Vaughn's sitting on the hood of his car and pushing buttons on his cell phone. I freeze next to Crazy Number One's car and will him to look up. It's cold out today, but he doesn't have a coat, and I find myself wishing he would go put one on.

He glances over at me once, and I wave. It's probably the wrong thing to do, but ever since that last day of school and he pushed me behind him when Matthew Harris charged me, I can't help but feel like I owe him something.

And I'm so unbearably curious about _why _he did it. Everyone in that cafeteria was revved up for a fight, cheering it on, waiting anxiously to see how it would play out. Nobody else cared if any real harm came to me, so why should he?

I know I'm probably over analyzing things, but I can't help it. If I wasn't with Crazy Number One, I would confront him right now. But for now, I think I'll see how he takes a casual little wave.

His eyes narrow at me in what looks like suspicion, but he lifts a hand and gives me a wave back. I get into the car, pleased with this tiny bit of progress. I only want to know about the fight. That's all.

After my curiosity has been quenched, I'll go back to ignoring him, just like all the other students. I stare out the window as Crazy Number One drives to the store. She's a firm believer in the speed limit and seat belts, and all other traffic laws, which for some reason strikes me as hilarious.

I like to go into town; sometimes I can pretend that I'm there by myself, doing some shopping before I return to my glorious not-gray home. Crazy Number One takes her time in the store, like she always does, making faces at some of the higher prices. Occasionally she sends me to get something for her, and I always linger by the jewelry displays.

I scan all the different rings beneath the protective glass, seeking one that looks like that one with the amethyst stone I saw long ago. I find none, and disappointment that runs too deep for my taste shoots through me.

When Crazy Number One and I are waiting in line at the cashier's, she gestures to the neat little row of beef jerky, gum and candy bar displays.

"You may have one," she says.

My eyebrows shoot up in surprise. She does something nice like this for me very rarely, without any rhyme or reason. I know, because I've looked. It's completely at random. I've been tempted to ask from time to time, but I dismiss the idea because I don't want her to stop doing it.

I can only speculate her reasoning as I go to the stand and examine all the snacks for sale. I select a milk chocolate candy bar with nuts and put it with the rest of the groceries. Crazy Number One's fingers tap repeatedly on the bar of her cart, and I can tell she's bored. I've lived with this woman for quite a while now, and I still don't completely understand her. I shrug, and begin flipping through magazine I find lying on the floor.

I probably never will.

**OoOoOoOoO**

The only real incident worth reporting occurred the last day of my two week long suspension. Crazy Number Two – home since it was Sunday – instructed me to dust the dressers and shelves in his bedroom. I dreaded going into the Crazies' room. They have that odd little painting on the wall by the window, and their bed sheets are vomit green.

There's no pictures or other items of sentimental value, just like the rest of this sad excuse of a home. As far as I can tell, hardly anything means something to them at all, including each other. I've seen the Crazies kiss and touch each other, but I refuse to believe that they are in love.

I don't have much to go on in the way of romantic love – the couples at school are no help – but I don't think I've ever really seen it. The Crazies tolerate each other, maybe even enjoy each other's company, but there isn't any compassion or tenderness in their eyes whenever they look at each other.

If anything, they are married out of convenience. This has always been a mystery to me, because I would never marry someone simply because the arrangement might benefit me, financially or in any other respect.

If I do marry – though the idea is unlikely – it will be for love. Still, I don't have high hopes for it. Like all other luxuries, I must discard this one for the sake of staying alive. I clutch the feather duster in my hand and sweep across the long brown dresser at the end of the Crazies' bed, and then move to their nightstands.

Crazy Number One has two books, three pens, and a lamp on hers. I move them aside and dust. Crazy Number Two has a half-drunk glass of red wine, a comb, and two papers with a lot of fancy mathematical equations on his.

I move the papers and the comb to the bed and hold the glass in my left hand while I dust with my right. A noise from outside – their window is open – startles me, and the glass slips through my fingers. Thankfully, it doesn't shatter into bits when it lands, but its contents seep into the floor, drastically darkening the white carpet.

Terror renders me immobile; they will be angry with me for this. And I was probably going to get dinner tonight, too. I try to think of how I could hide the large, ugly stain, but I cannot. I won't be able to scrub it out without cleaning materials, and the Crazies would notice me sneaking bottles upstairs.

With trembling fingers, I make my way downstairs slowly. The two of them are kissing on the couch with the TV still on the game show channel. I turn my head and clear my throat to get them to notice me. Crazy Number Two lifts an eyebrow, clearly irritated.

"What is it, Chelsea? Is the dusting done?"

"Yes, but . . . I . . . spilt the wine that was on your nightstand."

His eyes widen as if I've just told him I intend to slit his throat in his sleep. He gets to his feet and hurries up the stairs while I stare after him with a lump in my throat. Crazy Number One leans back on the sofa, glancing stoically at me once before her eyes return to the screen.

I hear a roar of outrage from upstairs, and I suddenly want to curl into a ball like a little girl. Crazy Number Two is hard to get angry, but when he does, things get ugly. He charges back down the stairs and glares down at me with fire in his eyes.

Then his hand lifts and slaps me across the face. My head jerks back and I fall on my butt, and I hear a small cry escape my lips. My cheek stings from where it was struck, and tears well in my eyes; I force them back.

Crazy Number Two is still seething, gritting his teeth and pulling at his dirty blonde hair.

"Jeff, I can't see the screen," says Crazy Number One.

I look at her, and feel an overwhelming urge to get up and punch her dead in the face. Crazy Number Two reaches down, grabs my wrist, and quite literally drags me up the stairs. My limbs are bumped and pushed as I try frantically to keep up.

When we reach the door of my room, he throws me inside, where I land in a heap, bang my head and then stare up at the ceiling with shocked eyes.

"You'll scrub our carpet until your hands are red tomorrow," Crazy Number Two snarls, "You have _no _idea how much it costs. You don't know anything, you lazy bitch."

The door slams, and I hear him stomp down the stairs. My eyes close, and I press a palm against my wounded cheek. The back of my head burns from whatever I smacked. I allow a few silent tears to escape before I get to my feet and drag myself to my bed.

There is no use dwelling on the unfairness of this situation. All it will do is upset me. Images of going downstairs and throttling the Crazies will get me nowhere. I just need to focus on getting through my time with them alive. Easier said than done.

**OoOoOoO**

Monday morning, I get up early and go to the bathroom.

There's an ugly red mark on the side of my face, and dark shadows under my eyes. I didn't sleep last night, haunted by nightmares of the evening my parents died in a car crash. In those dreams, I'm always on the sidelines, watching the scene play out. Nightmares used to plague me all the time, but now they come around randomly.

A small miracle. I feel around the back of my head, but don't find a bump. I must not have hit my head too terribly hard. I yank a comb through my hair and head downstairs. Crazy Number One isn't around, so I take a chance and eat a bowl of cereal.

She saunters into the kitchen just as I'm placing the bowl in the sink.

"Keep a low profile at school today," she tells me.

"Yes," I say curtly, and then leave the room, knowing I can't bear more than a moment of her company today. She'll want me to keep a low profile until the mark on my face is gone.

"Chelsea!" Crazy Number One calls.

I groan, and go back into the kitchen. "Yes?"

"Don't walk away when I'm talking to you."

"I'm sorry," I lie.

She beckons me over, and I reluctantly move till we're a foot apart. She holds up a black compact and then dabs at my cheek with a powder puff. She leans back, pleased by the result.

"Here," she says, handing it to me.

I look at my face in the mirror, and see that the angry mark is now mostly concealed. "Thanks," I sigh.

She nods, and then dismisses me, turning her attention to a book I've just now noticed on the table. I grab my backpack and head out, glaring at Plushy when she shoots past my feet. I glance to the right, but the little blue car is gone.

Sighing, I walk to school silently. Mrs. Stone gives me a polite hello, and doesn't call on me once during class, which is more than I can say for Mrs. Fields, who glares at me and doesn't offer a greeting.

Matthew Harris avoids me completely; his seat has been moved to the opposite side of the room. A pale girl with brown hair sits behind me now, and I'm almost positive she won't give me trouble. Mr. Walter smiles hugely at me when I walk into his class and asks how I've been.

I lie to him, just like always, and he presses a book into my hand, wanting my opinion of it. I accept it, and move to my seat. I push it in my backpack without looking at the title; I'm in no mood to appreciate great works of literature.

Around me, I can hear people whispering. I know my fight with Matthew must be old news by now, but my reappearance has sparked the gossip. What amazes me is that I care even less now than I did before. I don't really resent the students around me anymore; I pity them for their ignorance.

In gym, Mr. Fredrick makes us play basketball, and I fake a stomachache to get out of it. I can tell he thinks I'm lying, but at least he's not calling me out on it. Everyone has been very lenient today, and I think it might have something to do with my feeling of crumbling inside and out.

Perhaps it's showing more than I want it to.

I lean back against the bleachers with my eyes shut, taking huge breaths and trying to think of nothing at all. When I am close to relaxed, I open them again to watch the game. I chew the inside of my cheek and search the mess of moving people.

I find who I'm looking for. Vaughn plays very well, and I find that I enjoy watching him. The usual angry, unhappy look is gone from his face, replaced by concentration. Someone passes him the ball, and he maneuvers through the court with surprising agility, scoring for his team.

He glances at me, and I look quickly away, embarrassed to be caught staring. I watch him inconspicuously for the rest of the period, and I toy with the idea of approaching him during passing period.

But I dismiss it as quickly as it arrives. I don't want to talk to him here at school, where someone could see and twist things into something they're not.

It'll have to be back in our neighborhood. Mr. Fredrick blows his whistle, and then it's over. Everyone's dismissed to go change clothes, and the lot of us exit the gymnasium.

As I watch Vaughn disappear down a hall to his next class, I shake my head and go to Spanish. I shouldn't be watching him.

I'm letting this whole thing consume way too much of my time. But it's been so long since anything remotely interesting has happened in my life, it's hard not to grasp it and never let go.

**OoOoOoO**

I run back when school lets out, gasping for breath by the time I arrive at the driveway of the gray house. I look up. Fate has seen it fit to give me this little bit of victory; Vaughn is standing in front of his car with his bag on the hood.

He's rummaging through it, randomly tossing papers and bits of other things around. As usual, he looks aggravated about something. I suck in big breath for courage, and casually approach. I'm standing by him for quite a few minutes before he notices my presence.

He slaps a brightly colored flyer down with all the other papers and continues tearing his bag apart in search of whatever he's looking for.

"What?" he snaps, by way of greeting.

I sigh. Unfortunately for him, I am quite used to all the people in my life either being cruel or entirely too invasive.

"Hi. I'm Chelsea. From school?" I start. I figure, even if he's not being polite, I should try to.

He exhales sharply, and his hands pause for a minute as he looks at me. I am stunned again by the impossible color of his eyes.

"Yeah, I know," he says. His tone has a rough edge to it, indicating that he'd like me to disappear as quickly as humanly possible.

Anger rushes through me; I'm going to say what I have to say to him whether he likes it or not. He's acting like it's sucking the life out of him by just having a simple conversation with me. But, then again, I do it to people all the time, too.

I'm cruel and just want them all to leave me alone. But I like to think I have a good _reason. _And then it hits me; maybe he does, too.

"I just wanted to thank you for what you did two weeks ago, during my fight with Matthew Harris. I don't know why you did it, and you didn't have to. But thanks."

He glowers at me like I'm a bug he'd like to squash. "I don't know what the hell you're talking about."

I grit my teeth; maybe it was a mistake to approach him. It's obviously just going to piss me off and, honestly, I don't need any more stress right now.

"When he charged me, you pushed me behind you," I say matter-of-factly.

He rolls his eyes. "So?"

"So, I just wanted to say thanks for that."

He goes back to digging through his bag. Apparently, I've lost his attention. Well, I had it for a whole twenty seconds. New record.

Suddenly, a booming voice sounds from the doorway of his house. "Vaughn!"

"What!"

"Get your ass in this house right now!"

"In a minute!" Vaughn yells back, gritting his teeth.

My eyes dart to the doorway, but from this angle I can't see who's standing there. "Who's that?" I wonder out loud.

Vaughn just shoots me another dirty look, and then starts stuffing papers back in his bag, giving up his search for the lost item.

Exasperation colors my voice when I speak again. "Look, thank you. That's all I wanted."

He shakes his head and yanks the strap of the bag over his shoulder. "Fine, whatever."

He turns abruptly and hurries into the house without so much as a goodbye. I blink, and then bit my lip so hard it bleeds. Well, that settles that. If I needed any more reason to keep avoiding him, it has just been given to me on a silver platter.

Unfortunately, my curiosity is still flaring. And not only for the fight incident – which he is so quick to dismiss – but for other things, too. Like, why does he treat people like dirt? For the same reasons I do? Or is it something else entirely? I turn and start walking, away from the gray house.

Since I got here so quickly, I have a few minutes to meander before I have to go inside. I should just leave this whole mess alone. He must see me in school acting the same way he does, and it hasn't made him want to know _my _life story. I sit down on the edge of the sidewalk and watch as a few cars drive by, indecision sitting heavily in my heart.

Moaning internally at the mess of my life, I get to my feet and begin walking back to the gray house. Just as I reach the driveway, I look over at Vaughn's little blue car. He didn't quite manage to get _all _the papers in his bag before he rushed off. The brightly colored one I saw is still there, among a few others.

I go to his car, knowing that my curiosity as of late has gotten wildly out of control, but not really caring, either. I pick up all three papers. The first two are old tests.

They've both been scribbled over, so it's impossible for me to see the grades. I drop them back on the hood of the car and study the flyer. It's a shade of orange so bright it hurts to look directly at it. But the writing is black, blocky letters.

It reads:

_Sunshine Islands_

_Have you ever wondered what it might be like to have your own little piece of Island paradise? _

_Well, now you can! Just recently, a settlement has been made on a string of Islands north of Hawaii. New residents and tourists are welcome to come. _

_They are especially in need of a rancher, who will work to rebuild Sunshine Islands to their former glory. This position is sure to be filled soon, so check it out while you still can! _

Below, an address is given. At certain times, you have to show up at some docks and take a boat to these Sunshine Islands if you're interested in the position. The rest of the flyer is decorated with pictures of fat, happy little cows and chickens.

On a whim, I fold it into a neat square and stuff it in my pocket, hurrying back onto the Crazies' property before Vaughn sees me stealing his paper.

**OoOoOoO**

The Crazies are nice enough to give me dinner that night, so I take it up to my room and eat quietly on my bed. I pull out the book Mr. Walter gave me and read for a little while, appreciating this time I have to relax.

By the time I'm done eating and through three chapters, it begins to rain. I set the book down and lean back against my pillow. I've always loved the sound of rain splashing against my window at night. I think about just letting it lull me to sleep, but then I remember the flyer in my pocket. I pull it out and trace the outline of the happy farm animals.

Idly, I wonder if there is a certain age you have to be to start doing this. Maybe, but hopefully not. Wait. _Hopefully not? _I'm thinking like I'm actually going to these Sunshine Islands, which I'm not. I try to be firm about this decision, but a tiny voices whispers in my ear, an idea plants itself in my brain.

I would be a terrible rancher, I tell myself fiercely. I don't know anything about animals or plants or anything like that. The Islanders would laugh in my face . . . wouldn't they? I stare out my window blankly.

Right about now, I'd seize any opportunity to get away from the Crazies. But I don't want to be hasty and end up doing something I'll regret for the rest of my life. Would it be so awful, though, to settle on some Islands and make a new life for myself?

I doubt farming requires any sort of degree, so it wouldn't matter if I dropped out of school. I've been so worried about the daunting future, and now it seems the answer has been handed to me on a silver platter.

Almost too good to be true. If I really try, and apply myself to it like nothing I've done before, I could learn all there is to know about ranching. Despite my terrible grades, I know I'm not stupid. I couldn't be, to have survived this long.

My gaze drops to the address below the colorful advertisement, and my heart sinks in my chest. Of course I can't go. It's much too far away, at least a hundred miles or so. I can't drive, and the Crazies won't let me go.

If they knew what I am contemplating, they'd lock me up in this room and never let me out. If I leave, I'll have to run away and somehow make it to the docks in time for the boat's departure to the Islands.

Can I do it? The answer, it seems, is a resounding no. I don't have the money, so I will either freeze or starve to death. If only it wasn't so far away, if only I was braver . . . But the idea of really doing it is terrifying.

I've run away from foster parents before, but I was young, and brought things like stuffed animals and candy with me. I was always back within an hour. But this would be different. If I run, I can't come back.

The Crazies would never let me out of their sight again, and their punishment would be gruesome if I was caught. Tears spring into my eyes. For once in my life, a grand opportunity has presented itself, and I can't have it.

Overcome with frustration, I stuff the flyer under my mattress and punch my pillow angrily. But, as usual, my stupid emotions will get me nowhere. I yank the blankets over my body and listen to the rain again.

Somehow, that same sense of peace finds me, and I sleep.

**OoOoOoO**

The next day, I actually make a good effort to behave during school. I figure I have to do this occasionally, so my teachers don't get so fed up with me they start scheming at ways to get me out of their hair more than they already do.

Plus, I've been in a slightly better mood than usual ever since I found that poster. It didn't even bother me this morning when Crazy Number One threatened to lock me in my room for a week straight when I gave Plushy a dirty look this morning – she knows I hate that cat.

My elation is something I can't explain, because I've already reasoned with myself that I cannot go to Sunshine Islands. There are just too many holes in the plan. I've always been good at taking risks, but the consequences of this one are too high a price if it doesn't work out.

So why can't I wipe this silly little smile off my face?

Why does the sun shining in through the window seem to warm my skin more than usual?

Why does Mrs. Stone resemble a person more than a fish?

I should grasp onto this feeling of happiness – I so rarely feel it – but all I can seem to do is gape at its foreignness. That last thought brings on a wave of sadness. Have I _forgotten _how to be happy? No, I tell myself, that can't be.

A person can't forget joy or love. Those emotions are too strong, too deep, to ever be rooted out completely . . . right? I contemplate this for a while before dismissing it completely and going back to my unusual perkiness.

I think long and hard for a while, and I come to this conclusion: If I'm feeling happy, it's because subconsciously I haven't entirely rejected the idea of going to the Islands, and hope is sprouting in my heart before it can be stopped. It doesn't matter how long I try to persuade myself with logic; in my heart, I can't let this go.

I simply cannot.

**OoOoOoO**

At lunch, I munch quietly on a piece of pizza and listen to bits and pieces of the chatter buzzing around me. The high of my epiphany in math class is still with me, and I hum a tune softly I remember hearing once a long time ago.

I still have no idea how I'm going to get to the Islands or how I'm going to claim the position there, but, for now, I can't seem to care. At this moment in time, I'm going to content myself with hope. I daydream elaborate fantasies of Island life, a luxury I don't allow myself to indulge in often.

After I'm done with the pizza, there's still a good fifteen minutes of lunch left, so I pull the orange flyer from my bag and study the little cartoon drawings of farm animals. Again, the address and time distresses me, so I avoid the large black lettering.

And then I feel someone hovering over me from behind, eyes boring holes in the back of my head. Aggravated at being interrupted, I spin around in my seat, sure it's someone as equally stupid or disinteresting as Matthew Harris.

Imagine my surprise when I find myself staring into uniquely purpleish irises.

Vaughn's glaring down at me like I've just stabbed him with something awfully sharp. His arms are crossed over his chest, and he's dressed in nothing but black, as per usual. Now, usually, when a student at this school looks at me like this, it is easy for me to throw up my defensive wall and be nasty right back.

It's never been difficult before. But there's just something about him that's seriously intimidating, a vibe that clearly states: Don't screw with me or I'll hurt you. An odd mixture of fear and curiosity coils in my stomach.

I've wanted him to talk to me at school before, but judging by the look on his face, it won't be the normal pleasantries like "hello" and "how are you". Despite my feelings, I force myself to glower back at him, and then I get to my feet because I don't like him looking down on me.

"Can I help you with something?" I asked, my voice cold and detached.

He matches my tone easily. "What is that?"

He points to the flyer in my hands. I look down at it, and then I remember; I took it from the hood of his car after he disappeared inside his house.

"It's a flyer," I tell him, enunciating the words like I'm talking to a crazy person. I know it just pisses him off more, but I'm irritated with him for not being kinder when I tried to thank him for the Matthew Harris incident.

"It's _my _flyer," he growls.

I'm tempted to spit back at him, "Finders keepers, loser's weepers." But that might just be suicide, so I say instead, "I know. I found it on your car. Didn't look like you wanted it anymore."

"I do. So give it back." He holds out his hand expectantly.

It mildly amuses me that he thinks I'll give it up so easily.

"Why? It's only going to end up crumpled in your bag again."

"Even if it did, it wouldn't be any of your business."

"Probably not," I agree, "But . . ."

Uncertainly sneaks into my voice before I can stop it. I'm not going to beg him for this flyer; I don't want him to know how much I want it. It's my ticket to freedom. The fact that he wants to take it from me makes me want to claw his eyes out.

I clutch it tighter in my hand. "I really want it," I say, against my better judgment.

His eyebrows raise like this is the last thing he expected me to say. The look of surprise passes quickly, though, and it's back to the stone cold mask.

"What you what makes no difference to me. Give it back."

Anger boils in my blood, makes the hand that's not holding the flyer clench into a tight fist. But I'm not stupid enough to try and hit him. I'd lose that fight. I'm sure of it. Still, when I speak again, my voice comes out way to loud.

"No!"

Heads turn in our direction, curious and probing. Suddenly I feel the whole cafeteria's eyes on us, and a rush of déjà vu runs through me. Are they all hoping for another fight to gossip about for the next week before it becomes old news and they move onto something better?

Well, they're not going to get their wish. I lean close to Vaughn for a second so only he can here – and ignore how quickly my heart speeds up for reasons that have nothing to do with my anger.

"Can we please go talk somewhere else? Where there's no audience?"

He glances around like I just did, as if only just now noticing the unwanted attention we're getting at the moment. He fidgets a little, so I can tell he's just as uncomfortable as I am. "Fine," he says, so softly I can barely hear it.

He spins and makes his way to the door that leads outside. He doesn't look behind him, so I assume he just expects me to follow. Although this aggravates me beyond belief, I manage to put it aside and just do it. We walk all the way down the track, which is thankfully empty.

"Why do you want it so badly? It's just a flyer," he snaps, reaching for it.

I step back, out of his reach. "Why do _you _want it _back _so badly?"

We scowl at each other for a minute. I refuse to let myself lose this little stare down, even through the intensity of his glower secretly makes me want to hide. Finally, he speaks.

"Give it to me." His voice is low and threatening.

Dread coils in the pit of my stomach, and I tense. The way I see it, I have two options here. I can give into my instincts and merely bolt away, hide the flyer and hope he never finds it. I'm ready to run at any second. But a small, nagging voices in the back of my mind whispers that if I do that, he will despise me forever for sure.

It shouldn't bother me, but it does. If it was any other person in this school standing in front of me, it wouldn't. I've given up trying to deny it. So, I swallow thickly and take a great – and possibly stupid – risk.

"You'll have to fight me for it."

This time he is not able to mask his look of surprise as quickly as last time. His eyebrows shoot up, and he blinks. "You would lose."

"Maybe," I agree.

Again, we stare each other down, and I brace myself for impact. But he only exhales sharply, and his violet eyes flash in annoyance.

"I'm not going to waste my time on you. Keep the damn thing." He stalks off without another word, leaving me to contemplate what just happened.

Above me, dark storm clouds roll in the sky, and I feel the first freezing raindrop on my nose. I glance down at the bright orange paper in my hands, allowing myself a brief triumphant smile at my victory.

I fold it with care and stick it in my pocket so it doesn't get wet. On my way back to school, the clouds open up and really begin to shower. I jog quickly all the way back to the door of the school and slip inside.

The cafeteria is empty, so I can assume class started while we were gone. Mr. Fredrick will keep the students inside today since the weather's so nasty. I get halfway to the gym before I stop and decide to skip it.

I want to be alone right now. I slip back outside since there's little chance of bumping into someone there, and find shelter under the overhang on the school's roof. I lean back against the solid brick wall with my knees pulled against my chest. I'm still feeling joyful about keeping the flyer, but dark thoughts spring up in my mind and put a damper on the emotions.

Why did Vaughn want the flyer so badly? Could he possibly have wanted it as much as _me_? And, most importantly, what kind of situation is he in that warrants the need of such a quick departure from the city?

I was so busy thinking of the flyer as _my _ticket to freedom, I didn't even stop to consider that maybe it was someone else's first.

The weight of the paper in my pocket seems heavy as stone now, and guilt blossoms in my heart. I don't want to hurt him, or anybody else in my escape of this life. Is that the only way to exit hell? Tears spring into my eyes, and I allow a few to roll down my cheeks.

I am selfish. I am cruel.

Am I just as bad as the Crazies? I shudder. No. Never will I be anywhere close to the level of wickedness they reside on. True, taking the flyer was a bad thing to do. But with an opportunity like this coming from seemingly nowhere, I would be a fool not to take it. I need to think about what is right for _me, _not anyone else.

Hasn't my whole goal in life since my parents' death been to stay alive? Curled up against that brick wall, I make a vow. Right now, it seems utterly impossible, but it is the only thing that gives me hope and security.

I will get to Sunshine Islands.


	6. Escape

_5: Escape_

"**A journey of a thousand miles must begin with a single step." **_**- Lao Tzu**_

I will have to leave very soon if I expect to make it to the docks to board the boat that goes to Sunshine Islands in time.

I'll have to get some money for a bus pass, since I can't drive. Even if I could, I couldn't afford gas. I can't afford _anything_ right now; Crazy Number One took everything I had. I don't have time to stick around and start saving again. I'll have to steal some.

My heart pounds and I frown to myself as I walk slowly down the sidewalk, enjoying the light drizzle of rain currently falling from the sky. The chilly autumn air makes me shiver, but I'm so distracted by my thoughts that I hardly notice the cold.

I don't want to steal.

But I remind myself of my 'I only take what I need' rule, and I feel a little better. This is something I truly need. By the time I reach the gray house, I notice that Crazy Number One's vehicle is not in the driveway, which is strange.

She's always here when I come home from school; she doesn't like to leave me home alone, as if I will plant a bomb under their bed while they're away or something (which is not an unappealing idea).

I briefly wonder if it could be in the garage, but quickly dismiss the thought. The Crazies' garage is so full of junk you probably couldn't fit a single tire in there; Crazy Number Two is a bit of a packrat. I tried to go through a few boxes a while ago, but Crazy Number One caught me and told me not to look through their stuff.

At the time, I'd secretly wondered if maybe they stored dead bodies in their garage. It wouldn't surprise me. As I make my way to the door, I test the knob; and, surprisingly, the door swings open.

I step cautiously into the house, and set my backpack next to the door.

"Hello?" I call loudly.

No answer.

I go into the living room, and then the kitchen, looking for her. A tight ball of nervousness has formed in my stomach. By the time I make it up the stairs, I'm twitching at every little sound I hear. The bedrooms are vacant, too. I check the basement.

Nope.

I go back upstairs and sit down on the sofa, taking in the silence. I should probably appreciate my alone time, but this never happens, and I am far too suspicious to relax. I take a few deep breaths and tell myself to relax.

I even turn on the TV and flip to some sitcom I haven't seen in years. But I can't seem to focus on it. And then an idea sprouts in my mind. This would probably be a good time to take inventory of everything around here, and try to get some things together for when I ditch this place for good.

I run back down to the basement and open the small closet in the corner. The Crazies keep random stuff here, but I specifically remember seeing a large black bag with pictures of small purple flowers. Sure enough, I find it under a stack of old phonebooks. Obviously, if I'm going to be on the bus for a long time, I'll need to travel light.

The bag is bigger than I remembered it being, which is just fine with me. Back upstairs, I stand in the middle of my room, suddenly unsure. What sort of things should I bring with me? Only the necessities, I decide.

Things that I need to survive.

I pull an extra pair of jeans from my dresser, two pairs of socks, and different underwear. A sweatshirt, an old cap, a bra, my hairbrush. When I leave, I'll wear a coat and my best tennis shoes (which are still worn out, but they'll work). Doing this – actually doing this, getting things together to prepare to leave – makes me exited.

Adrenaline is coursing through my veins, and I feel elated, like I'm paving an exit from hell for myself. I carry the bag into the bathroom and throw in my toothbrush, some deodorant, and hand sanitizer (buses can be so dirty).

Then I go back to the kitchen and get into the Crazies' stash of bottled water (they have around six crates by the garbage can), and take three from the very bottom, hoping they won't notice. When I pick the bag up, it is bordering on full, and it's a little heavier than I'd like. It will definitely be a huge burden to constantly have the strap over my shoulder.

Would it be smarter to just use my backpack?

Probably.

But can I fit all this stuff inside?

Only one way to find out.

I drag the bag and my backpack into the living room and begin transferring my things, hoping that Crazy Number One will be out for a while longer. My backpack does hold everything, but the zipper is sort of straining.

I can only pray it will hold until I get to the Islands. I think long and hard, trying to come up with other things that might be necessary. And then I remember Crazy Number One's locked up drawer in the kitchen that holds all her medicines.

What if I get sick or something on my way and I need pills to get better? I go back into the bathroom and take a bottle of regular aspirin, once again hoping the Crazies won't notice. I slip the little bottle into one of the backpack's smaller pockets.

If I decide to take any of Crazy Number One's drugs with me, I will have to take it right before I go. Because she _will _notice the next time she opens the drawer. The same goes for the money – its absence will not be missed.

So I will have to swipe both those things at the last minute, so when the Crazies realize they're gone, I won't be around to punish. The idea of forever being out of the Crazies' reach forever is so glorious it's nearly intoxicating.

But I can't sit around and daydream now. I have to stay focused. I know that the Crazies keep money in the bank, but I also know they have a small, fire-proof safe they keep some cash in as well.

The only problem is, I have no idea where the key to that is, and I don't think I could get into it without one. It's possible that I will simply have to make due with what I can find in Crazy Number One's purse. How much will it cost to get to Sunshine Islands?

What if I run out of money on the way there?

What if I starve to death?

Freeze to death?

What if one of the passengers on the bus turns out to be a serial killer and I end up dead on the side of the road somewhere?

What if, what if, what it?

Anxiety is suddenly upon me, so forcefully it steals by breath. I have to force myself to calm down before I start seeing spots. There are so many risks involved in the decision that I've already made and will not go back on.

There are so many things that could go wrong.

I feel totally inexperienced and unequipped to handle this. I can't even be sure of what to bring; I'm just taking what I think makes sense. The adrenaline I felt earlier in gone, replaced by what can only be pure fear. I get to my feet and pick up the backpack, trudging up to my room. I hide in the back corner of my closet.

The Crazies will wonder why I'm not taking my backpack with me to school; I'll have to make up some story about what's happened to it. I try to think of trivial things on the way back down the stairs, because if I don't I'm sure the panic attack with resume.

I step outside and walk down the driveway, convinced that some fresh air will help calm me down. I sit down on the sidewalk, staring at the yellow house across the street for a while and focusing only on inhaling and exhaling.

Tomorrow I will look into the bus thing, and after that everything will fall into place, I tell myself. And even if it doesn't, this is something I have to do. I'd rather die on my way to Sunshine Islands – on my way to freedom – than face a future here with the Crazies.

As I contemplate the journey ahead of me, tiredness suddenly sweeps through my body, seeping into my very bones.

Do I really have the strength, the determination, to do this?

Yes, I decide. I just need to take this one step at a time.

And stay alive.

Right now, the bus things is my main goal. With that decision made, I allow myself to start daydreaming about a better life on the Islands, and I feel strangely content. I am immersed in a particularly detailed one when suddenly a shadow falls over me.

I look up, expecting Crazy Number One to be looming over me with an axe or something. But it's only Vaughn, staring down at me with fathomless eyes. Even though we have similar personalities, and he hides his emotions as much as I do (maybe even more), I don't think I'll ever be as good at looking so expressionless.

We stare at each other for about ten seconds without speaking.

Finally, he mutters "hello", and sits down beside me.

I blink at him, surprised. This is the first time he's ever talked to me outside of school (willingly, anyway). Unsure of how to respond, I frown at him.

"Uh, hi," I reply, my tone clearly cautious.

He slides his backpack off his shoulders and leans it against his side. Another ten, twenty seconds pass while I wait for him to give me a reason for his bizarre actions. But he wears a distant expression now, as if he's deep in thought.

Of course, Vaughn's deep-in-thought face is a small frown. I decide to help him along, since conversation is clearly difficult for him to manage.

"Was there something you wanted, or did you just feel like sitting with me?" I snort at the thought.

"The former," he answers with a quiet laugh of his own.

A laugh? Vaughn's being all sorts of strange today.

He sighs, and meets my gaze, and I manage to stop myself from thinking gooey thoughts about his pretty eyes (but just barely).

"Why did you want my flyer so badly? Are you planning on going?"

I contemplate his question, unsurprised by how to-the-point he is. I take my time replying, wondering if maybe I should lie.

"Why do you want to know?" I ask, perhaps too sharply.

"Just answer the question," he snaps, annoyed.

The tension between us is so thick, I wish I had a knife so I could cut into it. Neither of us are really used to talking about our own thoughts and feelings, I guess.

"Yes," I finally say quietly, "I'm gonna go. I want that position on the Islands. Do you?"

He nods. "Yeah, I do."

I purse my lips. "Well . . ."

Another awkward silence.

"Do your parents know you're going?" Vaughn asks.

"No. And they're not my parents – they're fosters."

"Crazies?"

I'm surprised he remembers my muttered word from when we ran together in the forest. I smile a little. "Yeah. I've called them that for as long as I can remember."

"I have names for my stepfather, too, but they're not nearly as kind," Vaughn says, smirking.

"Mine aren't always, either."

"How do you plan on getting there?" he wonders.

I shrug. "Buses. Walking. Hell, I'd hitchhike if it'd get me there faster. All I want is to get away from here."

He nods. "I understand."

And I know he really does.

"How are _you _getting there?" I ask.

He gestures to the car in his driveway.

"I guess we know who'll get there first," he says.

I glare at him angrily, and I'm about to stalk off when I see him smile (a little one, of course), so I know he's not being mean.

"I guess so," I allow.

"But I won't be able to drive there the whole way, I think," he muses.

"Why not?"

"My parents will report it stolen, and the police will find it."

"So you're going to ditch it on the way there?" I ask.

"Somewhere along the way, yeah. And then it's buses and hitchhiking of me too, I guess."

I stare down at my shoes. "I don't really want to race you, only to find that you got there first when I arrive. That would suck."

"Likewise," he says.

Yet another silence. This one seems to stretch on forever.

"Maybe . . ." he says quietly after a moment.

"Maybe what?"

Vaughn bites his bottom lip and doesn't finish.

A light bulb goes off above my head. "We could go together," I say for him.

He nods once. "I don't really want to take you with me, but it seems like you want to get the hell out of Dodge just as much as I do."

"More than you know," I say.

Then his words sink in. I don't like how he phrased that.

"You're not 'taking me with you'," I snap.

The words make it seem like I'm going to rely on him. Which I refuse to do.

"I mean, obviously, I'm going to have to ride with you in your car, but other than that . . ."

He nods. "For a little while," he reminds me.

I stare down the street, a thousand different thoughts racing through my mind. It probably isn't the brightest idea to agree to travel with a boy from school I hardly know. One who is extremely moody and short-fused, at that. But knowing that someone will be there, that I won't be completely alone . . . it's comforting.

Even though I'm used to being alone, I'm not going to turn down this opportunity. At least I won't have to ride in a bus or hitchhike all of the way. His car seems sturdy enough.

"It'll take quite a while to get there," I say.

He shoots me an aggravated look that suggests I'm an idiot for stating the obvious.

Irritated, I snap, "I just meant that it's a long time to spend with each other."

"I know. I've been sitting here for ten minutes and I'm already aggravated."

"Likewise."

If we can't have a simple conversation without pissing each other off, then how on earth will be able to reach our destination without killing each other first?

He shakes his head. "It doesn't matter. Just because we're traveling together doesn't mean we have to talk much."

"No, I guess not." I bite my lip, and then add, "So, since you think your parents will report the car stolen, I'm guessing that they don't approve of our little trip, either?"

Vaughn rolls his eyes. "No, but I don't give a damn what either of them thinks anymore. Things will be better for all of us once I'm gone."

I nod. I know how he feels. We sit together through another silence, but this one feels almost friendly. We aren't exactly bonding, but maybe we won't be able to full-out hate each other with so much in common.

Thought I can't say I've ever really hated him. I dislike him, sure, but I also . . . like him.

What the hell is wrong with me?

I exhale sharply, trying to ignore my complicated emotions.

"So, when do you wanna go?" I ask.

"Tomorrow."

My eyes widen a little. "That's . . . really soon."

"Not soon enough," he grumbles.

My mouth suddenly feels dry, and I swallow thickly.

He stares at me evenly, one eyebrow arched in question. "I thought you wanted to leave as soon as possible?"

"I do," I assure him. I stare down at my fingers and my voice is quiet when I speak again. "I've never wanted to be here with them. But . . . I don't know. There are so many things that could go wrong. I'm . . . nervous."

"Bad things happen," Vaughn says flatly.

"I _know,_" I say, "That doesn't mean I can't be anxious about them. Aren't you worried?"

He shrugs. "I guess. But worrying about 'what ifs' is a big waste of time."

His words sting. For the first time in a long while, I just admitted what I was feeling to another human being, wanting to be comforted a little. But then, look who I'm expecting it from.

"I'll be outside your house in my car at midnight tomorrow night. I'll wait for fifteen minutes. If you're not out by then, I'm leaving without you. Get your stuff together and bring what's important. Money and clothes, preferably," he says matter-of-factly.

I blink once, a bit surprised by his list of expectations. "Fifteen minutes?" I repeat.

That seems like a pretty narrow window.

He frowns at me. "Yeah, fifteen minutes. I don't even have to take you at all if you don't like it."

"You're such as asshole."

I look up at the sky and count to ten in my head to calm my raging temper.

He ignores the insult. "Will you be there or not?"

I don't hesitate, momentarily pushing aside my fears and worries. "Yeah, I'll be there. I don't think I can get much money, though."

"My mom and my stepfather keep most of it in their little fireproof safe. My stepfather doesn't trust banks. So, I might be a little short, too."

I nod. "Well, that just means that we might have to occasionally swipe things that we need. Need, not want," I say, emphasizing the last point.

"Probably," he agrees.

I wonder idly if he has any experience in the swiping things area. I do, but I don't consider myself an expert as it or anything (and, honestly, I don't want to be).

"We'll get there," he says, and I'm surprised by how confident he seems.

"Eventually." I laugh quietly.

Vaughn nods once, and then holds out his hand.

I stare at it stupidly for a minute before the light bulb goes off in above my head and I realize belatedly that he wants to shake hands. I try to convince myself that I'm imagining the tingly sensation that spreads across my skin wherever he touches.

Just then, a car comes barreling down the road. It's Crazy Number One – she pulls into the driveway and gets out with Plushy in her arms. She starts walking towards the door, but then she notices me on the sidewalk and comes over. As usual, the cat hisses when it sees me.

"What happened?" I ask, pretending to be interested.

Crazy Number One scowls and says, "I had to take Plushy to the vet for some vaccinations. I thought it was this Saturday, though, not today."

"Oh," I say.

Plushy wiggles in Crazy Number One's arms until she sets him gently on the ground, and then he scampers away, towards the gray house.

Crazy Number One watches him go for a second before her eyes are on me again.

"What did you do while I was away?" she tries to sound casual for the sake of our audience, but I can still hear the suspicion lacing her words.

"Nothing much," I reply, "Just got some homework done. And then I thought I would come sit out here for some fresh air."

"With a boy?" she asks.

My cheeks redden. "This is our neighbor, Cr – Mona. Have you met before?"

"Unfortunately not," Vaughn says, though his tone makes it clear that he has been very fortunate up until now.

Crazy Number One hears the sour note in his voice and frowns and him. "Well, it's time to come inside now, Chelsea," she says to me, promptly dismissing him.

I get to my feet and nod. "Okay."

I don't like the way the two of them are glaring at each other. I'm not sure what kind of trouble this could lead to, but it's definitely trouble. I bid Vaughn a little wave to say goodbye, trying to tell him with my eyes that I would be ready tomorrow.

In answer, he nods once, gets to his feet, and begins walking toward his house. Crazy Number One purses her lips in annoyance as she walks with me to the front door.

"You should be careful with the company you keep," she says, "Especially when I comes to boys. I'm not paying your hospital bills for you if you get yourself knocked up."

I blush as red as physically possible, hoping like hell she did not say that statement loud enough for Vaughn to hear. It's very possible, because she made no particular effort to keep her voice down.

"I understand," I say through my teeth.

**OoOoOoO**

Today's the day. The day I leave the gray house, and the Crazies, forever. I can't even bring myself to feel as nervous as yesterday – I'm too excited at the idea of leaving. I'm sure that later, when I've actually done it, the nervousness will return to the point of nausea, but for now all I can do it bask in the sensation of joy I feel.

I don't even bring the backpack to school with me, beyond grateful that I was able to sneak out the door this morning without Crazy Number One noticing. Because, really, I don't need it. Not on my very last day.

I actually hum quietly to myself in algebra, and when Mrs. Stone notices my happiness, her eyes widen and she gives me a shocked look.

I smile back at her and say, "Good morning, Mrs. Stone."

She blinks, and looks slightly confused, as if I have just told her that I'm secretly Dorothy following the yellow brick road.

"Um, good morning, Chelsea," she says finally, managing a smile in response.

When class begins, and she begins asking questions, I raise my hand to volunteer information. Mrs. Stone's pale, fishy lips form a little 'o', but she calls on me, and I answer correctly. I'm shocked to find that I actually understand most of the material she covers once I actually try to. When class is over, I gather my things, but my teacher stops me before I'm out the door.

"You're cheerful this morning," she observes.

"Yes, I am," I reply.

"Any particular reason?" she wonders.

My reflex reaction is the desire for her to back off, but for some reason I don't want her last memory of me to be bad.

"I'm . . . going on a trip," I finally answer. It's true enough.

Mrs. Stone nods. "That will be good for you, Chelsea. I hope you have a good time."

I can't stop the little laugh that escapes me, for she has no idea how treacherous this trip may be. She probably thinks the Crazies and I are going on some fun family trip to see the Grand Canyon.

"I'll try," I manage to say. Then I head for the door again, but just before it closes behind me, I say, "Goodbye, Mrs. Stone."

I know she doesn't realize the finality of my statement, but it's the best I can give her under the circumstances. Besides, I'm sure life will be much better for her once I'm gone, just like everyone else.

As usual, in second period, Mr. Walter is bouncy and cheerful, and I realize with a pang of regret in my heart that he is the one person I may actually miss.

"Morning, Mr. Walter," I say as I pass by.

"Hello, Chelsea!" he says, and then moves to greet several other students in the same fashion.

I sit towards the front today – I'm doing all sorts of crazy things – and listen to the lesson. Again, I raise my hand once in a while, and Mr. Walter positively buzzes with excitement. If I wasn't sad at having to say goodbye to him, I would have found it very funny.

At the end of class, I go up to him and say, "Thank you for the books you've let me borrow."

I hand him back the one I got most recently, wishing I'd found time to read it like most of the others.

He smiles. "You're very welcome."

He puts it on his desk and offers me another grin. "See you tomorrow."

Again, I explain about the trip.

When he asks when I'll return, I just tell him, "I'm not sure yet."

"Well, don't be gone too long. There's work to be done, you know." His tone is not condescending, but almost teasing.

"I know. See you later, Mr. Walter." I exit his classroom, wondering just how much later that might be.

I feel no remorse at having to leave Mrs. Fields or any of my other teachers, so thankfully that irritating pang of regret will soon subside. She is just as shocked at my joy as the others were, but after I've successfully answered a few of her questions, she actually smiles at me, almost proudly

Damn that pang of regret.

At lunch, I sit at an empty table with my suspicious meatloaf and potatoes, waiting for gym to start. Even though we plan to basically run away together this evening (with no romantic implications, attached, of course), I'm still surprised when Vaughn comes to sit next to me halfway through my meal.

"Uh, hi," I say, realizing that I've never actually seen him sit down and eat in the cafeteria. I wonder idly where he goes.

Today, he has pizza, though he doesn't seem to be in a huge hurry to eat it. So his parents must not starve him, like the Crazies occasionally do to me. For the thousandth time, I wonder why he wants to leave as much as I do.

"Hi," he answers.

We sit in silence for a while, as I thought we would. I don't mind him sitting next to me; it's actually nice to have company – even better, company that doesn't expect me to make polite small talk.

And, with his odd eye color, I have something pretty to look at while I eat. There are circles under his eyes, and his hair is messy, like he fell out of bed and hiked to school. Even so, I still find him very attractive.

"Tired?" I ask between bites, mostly managing to sound nonchalant.

"Yeah. I walked here today."

Ah. So my hiking to school idea wasn't too far off. "Why?"

"My stepfather took the keys to my car."

I know better than to ask why, so instead I say, "Will we still be able to use it tonight?"

Because I have something of a dirty mind, I realize how that statement could have sounded, and I smile a little to myself.

"Yes. I'll find them. He's not so hard to figure out." Vaughn rolls his eyes.

"Okay, then. I just have a few last things to grab." Money, in particular.

Before I pretend to go to bed later tonight, I'm going to take careful note of the location of Crazy Number One's purse. I can't even consider Crazy Number Two's wallet, because it's always in his pocket, and I can only imagine what would happen if he caught me taking it.

"I do, too. Still nervous?" He actually sounds interested.

"No," I lie, since my earlier confession of anxiety was so warmly received by my soon-to-be traveling companion. "Just glad to get away from here."

"Me, too."

**OoOoOoOoO**

Back at the gray house, Crazy Number One is lazing on the sofa reading a fashion magazine. I stand and watch her for a minute, thinking that this is the last time I will have to come back to her snarling face.

No more Crazies.

I relish the sentence, repeating it over and over in my mind like a mantra. When she finally notices me, she glances up.

"What? You want your list of chores?"

"Nope," I say.

She gestures to the sheet on the coffee table. "Get to it."

I take the sheet and head upstairs. I toss it on the dresser and dig my backpack out of the closet, praying that my provisions will be good enough for the trip. I place it next to the door and lock it. I don't have any intention of completing the list, and, even though I know the Crazies will be enraged, they probably won't go through the trouble of breaking down my door today.

They'll probably want to wait till tomorrow to show me their teeth and claws. So I lay down on my bed and stare up at the ceiling, trying not to let my emotions overwhelm me completely. I don't do a very good job.

I go from sad to scared to excited in thirty seconds flat.

I set my alarm for 11:15, knowing it's not loud enough to wake the Crazies downstairs. Then I force myself to think of nothing at all, and eventually I drift off into a welcome slumber.

When my alarm wakes me – in what seems like minutes – my first reaction is to turn it off and go back to sleep, thinking I must have set it wrong. But then my memories come flooding into my head, and I sit up so fast I get a head rush.

It's time.

I inhale sharply thought my nose, and count to ten slowly in my head to steady my nerves. Then I slowly get up and go to my dresser, where I dig out an old sweatshirt that's pretty warm. I fell asleep in the clothes I was wearing – a t-shirt and old, faded jeans – so there's no need to change.

I go to the closet and dig out my backpack, slipping it onto my shoulders and wishing it weight it a bit less. I take one last look at my room before leaving, noting that I feel no attachment to it at all. I pause outside the Crazies' bedroom door, and I contemplate opening it to peek inside.

Why I have this insane urge is beyond me. Maybe I want to say goodbye to their sleeping faces? Or maybe I just want to do something nasty before I leave. Sighing, I dismiss the notion and then make my way downstairs.

I can't risk waking either of them up and missing my window of opportunity. Crazy Number One's purse is lying on the couch; I have to squint to see it in the dark. I turn on the light on the coffee table – it's not terribly bright – and go through it.

If one of them comes downstairs and catches me now, the only reasonable option is to drop what I'm doing and run like hell. I'm hoping to find a couple hundred in the bag, or at least one. But the only thing I find is a crumpled up fifty dollar bill.

Frustrated, I clutch the bill in one hand and dump the whole thing out with the other, desperate to find more. But there is no more. Tears burn in the corners of my eyes. This is not nearly enough to get me to where I want to go.

Hell, it's barely enough to carry me outside of town. I'll surely be dead halfway to my destination. But staying here is not an option. I'm already in this too deep to back out now. I'll just have to hope Vaughn managed to scrape up more than I did. I stuff the bill in my jeans pocket and don't bother putting Crazy Number One's purse back together – it will be my farewell present to her.

I lean back on the couch and sit in the dark for a few moments, calming my nerves. At midnight on the dot, I move silently down the hall and open the door. Vaughn's little blue car is already waiting a little ways down the street, but I can't see inside it because of the tinted windows.

"Goodbye," I mutter to the house before the door clicks shut behind me.

Inhaling sharply, I turn and slink away into the night.


	7. On The Run

_Six: On The Run_

_**If I'm free, it's because I'm always running. -  
><strong>__**Jimi Hendrix**_

The passenger door is unlocked when I reach it.

I get in the car; the overhead light does not come on when I do so. The bright little red lights coming from the buttons, however, are very annoying. It's uncomfortable to lean back in the seat with the backpack on my shoulders, so I lay it flat on my lap, knowing it contains all I have left in the world.

Anything I left back in the Crazies' house is as good as gone. Vaughn's sitting in the driver's seat with both hands on the wheel, staring at the road.

"Right on time," he observes. He sounds a little surprised, but he still doesn't look at me.

"I told you I'd be here," I snap.

He's got on a black hoodie and black jeans; in the dim light, I squint to see if maybe his fingernails are painted black, too. They're not, and, for that, I breathe a sigh of relief. He looks just as tired now as he did at school; there are dark circles under his eyes and he's paler than usual.

"Are you sure you can drive?" I ask, and then instantly regret how the question came out.

He shoots me an irritated glance. "_Yes, _I can drive. Why wouldn't I be able to?"

"You look tired," I say.

He snorts and rolls his eyes.

"What else is new?" he mutters as he pulls away from the curb, more to himself than me, I think.

I watch the Crazies' gray house until Vaughn makes a left turn and it's no longer visible. I exhale the breath I hadn't realized I was holding. Maybe subconsciously I thought Crazy Number Two would wake up in the middle of my escape and drag me back into the house with a bat or something.

I relax and get as comfortable as I can in the seat. I don't intend to sleep, but I don't know how long it'll be until I get to stretch my legs again. We've got a long way to go. Five minutes pass without either of us saying a word.

I glance at Vaughn every once in a while to make sure he's not falling asleep at the wheel. But I'm beginning to doubt he will. He's much too busy glaring at the road like it has committed an unforgivable sin against him.

His grip on the steering wheel is a bit too tight, and I think he might be gritting his teeth.

"Are you okay?" I ask, against my better judgment.

"I'm fine. Just leave me alone," he says sharply.

"You know, neither of us will make it to the Islands if we rip each other's throats out on the way there," I say, working hard to sound reasonable.

A minute passes. Finally, he sighs and relaxes.

"Yeah, I know. I just . . ." He shakes his head. "Well. We'll try to get along, alright?"

I nod. "That sounds good."

"And, as a rule, I don't want to play twenty questions on the way. Stay out of my business, and I'll stay out of yours."

"Fine," I agree, "But what are we supposed to do when we get there and both want the job?"

He shrugs. "We'll deal with that problem when we get there."

_If_ we get there, that little voice in my head whispers. I shove it to the back of my mind and lock it up tight. He makes it sound so simple.

"We have a long trip ahead of us," I tell him.

"I know. It'll be longer without the car."

"Do you think your parents will report the car stolen tomorrow?"

Vaughn bristles. "They are not my _parents. _At least, he isn't, not biologically. But then, she wasn't much of one, either."

I bit my tongue and decide not to say that this comment bordered suspiciously on the topic of his business.

"Well, whoever they are, will they report it soon?" I repeat.

"I don't know. Probably. But we'd have to ditch it on the way, anyway. Not enough gas money." Bitterness laces his words. "Speaking of money, how much did you get?"

"Fifty," I say, sounding just as bitter.

He curses under his breath.

"Sorry, but it's all that was in her purse. What do you have?" I ask.

'Thirty."

It's my turn to curse. "No way are we getting there with fifty bucks between us. Just what are we supposed to do when it runs out?"

"Hitchhike. Sleep under bridges. Steal. Pray for a miracle."

I lean my head back on the headrest and swallow against the lump lodged in my throat, fighting back frustrated tears. Vaughn doesn't need to see me cry.

"That sucks," I whisper. Understatement of the century.

He nods. "Yeah. Big time."

"But we'll get there, won't we?" I'm suddenly desperate for reassurance.

"I don't know," he says.

I groan. Some pep talk. Another silence passes. When Vaughn speaks again, he sounds sad.

"Maybe it's a good thing we're both going. If one of us drops dead on the way there, we won't have to compete with each other for the job."

I shudder, almost violently. "Don't say things like that."

"It's true."

"Doesn't mean I wanna listen to it."

When the silence falls again, neither of us break it for a long time.

**OoOoOoOoO**

We're about two or three towns away from the one we left when Vaughn parks the car in a parking lot behind a big building make of crumbling bricks.

"I need to get some sleep," he says.

My eyes widen in mock surprise. "What, you mean we _won't _be staying at a five-star hotel?"

He smirks. "Not unless you can magically produce money."

I roll my eyes. "If I could do that, I would have left a long time ago."

I put my backpack on the floor on the car in front of my feet and glance at the back seat. "So, how are we handling the sleeping arrangements?"

Vaughn blinks, and bites his lip. When we're turned toward each other, it's hard for me not to notice how close he is.

"You can take the back," he says finally, "I'll be fine in the seat."

The back seat of the little blue car is not exactly a king sized bed, but it will have to do. It's not long enough for me to stretch out completely, so I lay kind of scrunched up. Vaughn gets out of car and opens the trunk.

When the back door at my feet clicks open, he hands me a dark green blanket.

"I thought these might be useful," he says, "It gets cold out at night, you know."

I nod, taking what he offers gratefully. I'd just been thinking about how I was beginning to shiver. It didn't occur to me to ask him if he had one until he was back in the driver's seat.

"Yeah, I do," he replies, though his seems noticeably thinner than mine does.

I shift around often, trying to get comfortable despite the lack of space. I finally manage something comfortable enough for me to get some sleep when I hear his voice.

"Can you drive?"

"No."

"I didn't think you could. You walked to school all the time."

Surprised, I can't help but ask, "You noticed that, huh?"

"Sure."

He makes it sounds like no big deal, but I didn't know he was aware of my existence outside of our few interactions back in school. I tell him this cautiously. Though I can't see his expression in the dark, I can tell he's frowning. Big shocker.

"I didn't talk to a lot of people in school; doesn't mean I didn't know who they were," he says.

"Yeah, I get that. I wasn't exactly a social butterfly myself."

"No, you were much more interested in starting fights with assholes like Matthew Harris."

"I did not _start_ that fight. Believe me, he had it coming. And it's not like _I _suffered any damage from that fight. Thanks to someone who shall remain nameless." I roll my eyes.

"I didn't do anything."

I couldn't understand why he was denying it. "Yes, you did," I argue, "You pushed me behind you."

"Well, whatever. Bale would have stopped it before Harris could have done anything."

"He would have had an opening if you hadn't been there."

When he speaks again, he sounds aggravated, "Why does it even matter?"

I shift on my side so I'm facing him, even though it's kind of pointless. If I squint, I can see his face. I'm a little surprised his eyes don't glow in the dark. The thought makes me smirk. But then I remember his question, and I'm mad again.

"It wouldn't matter at all if you didn't keep lying about it. It's not a bad thing to do something nice for somebody else, you know. I know you probably have as much experience in that department as I do, so I understand your reluctance." My voice is teasing by the end of my speech.

Shockingly, his tone matches mine. "Giving and receiving is not my forte."

"It seems we have much in common."

"I guess so."

I yawn, and find that I am actually more tired than I thought. My adrenaline high from running away is quickly wearing thin. There are a thousand different things to worry about right now, but I push them all away and will myself to think of nothing at all.

"Goodnight," I say to Vaughn quietly.

I think I hear him say it back to me, but it's so quiet I can't be sure. My eyes close, and fall asleep quickly.

Unfortunately, it's not as restful as I'd like it to be. I have an awful nightmare about watching my parents die in the car crash. It's new not a new thing for me; this particular dream has haunted me for as long as I can remember.

As of late, it doesn't come nearly as frequently as I'm used to, but it's coming back to bite me again.

My nervousness and worry must be carrying over into my subconscious mind. The dream always starts with me and my parents driving down the road (though I wasn't in the car with them, of course), and we're laughing about something, but I'm not sure what.

And suddenly I'm standing to the side of the road, and I watch them crash head on into a semi truck. And I scream and cry and hurry to the scene of the crime, but by the time I get there the scene has warped into a funeral, with a crowd of black-clothed people standing around two wooden coffins.

I continue to cry in utter misery for a while, until I feel a soothing hand on my shoulder. I look up, expecting to see a pair of loving eyes set in a kind, comforting face. But it's Crazy Number One, who has come to take me Home.

To the gray house. She drags me away from the coffins; I kick and scream and try to get away, but the other people at the funeral don't even look at me. In the gray house, the Crazies torment me both emotionally and physically, and eventually kick me outside to rake the leaves.

While I'm out, I hear what sounds like a low moan coming from close by. Curious, dream-me moves to the fence separating us from our neighbors. Somehow, in the way of such dreams, I am able to walk right through it to the other side.

I go to the patio and peer into the house through the sliding glass doors. Seeing nothing, I slip through and move down a much too long hallway. Entering a bedroom, I trip over something in the doorway and sprawl to the floor.

I look back, and am horrified to see that Vaughn is the thing that I tripped over. The moaning is coming from him, and it's a pained sound. He's bruised and cut up pretty bad, and I crawl over and look down at his face; it's smeared with blood.

I hear a noise from above me, and when I look up, a man is standing over us with a malicious sneer. I instinctively know that it's his stepfather, come to kill us both. Both the Crazies are suddenly in the room, staring down at us with evil eyes.

And the three of them converge on us, Crazy Number Two draws a knife, and my screams are suddenly cut short. Gasping, I sit up too fast in the car and knock my head on the low ceiling.

Everything about the dream was the same, but the part about Vaughn is new. A sweat has broken out on my forehead, and I shiver, shaken by the nightmare.

"Morning," Vaughn says, his tone actually a bit concerned.

I look at him, disoriented by my surroundings and having him here with me. "Hi," I say.

He's got a bright red apple in his hand and has eaten about half of it.

"Where'd you get that?"

"Packed it."

He picks another apple off the passenger seat and hands it to me. "Money might be tight, but food and other supplies are in the truck."

I accept the fruit gratefully, and sit with my back against the door, hoping that I don't look entirely hideous. He doesn't look quite so tired; the circles are mostly gone from under his eyes, and he appears to have combed his hair.

"How long have you been awake?" I ask, biting into the apple.

My stomach grumbles appreciatively.

He shrugs. "About a half hour. I wanted to sleep some more, but it was kind of hard with you in the car."

I can feel my cheeks redden. "What do you mean?"

"You tossed and turned a lot. Shouted once towards the end, too. I was going to wake you up, but you just did it for me."

He doesn't sound annoyed, which surprises me.

"Huh. Sorry. I'm not usually so active and vocal during my nightmares." If I was, the Crazies would have complained about the shouting. But then, maybe not. I'd woken up with a cold sweat and a racing heart more times than I could count.

He looks away, towards the old brick building we're parked behind. "It's not a big deal. I have them, too."

"Really? A lot?"

"Yeah."

"Me, too. They suck." I sigh.

He nods. "An understatement."

A silence passes between us, and it is one of grim camaraderie. He understands the things that eat at me on the inside. We haven't necessarily been through the same things – that I know of, anyway – but we're both probably equally screwed up.

"Tell you what," he says finally, "I'll wake you up during your nightmares if you wake me during mine."

"How will I know if you're having one?" I ask.

"Trust me, you'll know."

I wince at his dead tone, and bite again into the apple, which is already almost gone. I fold the blanket I used last night, slip out the back seat and into the front one. The hair on the back of my neck is sticky with sweat, and I wish I had a shower. I settle for using the deodorant in my backpack.

My shirt comes up a little when I raise my arms, and I catch Vaughn glancing at the sliver of my stomach.

"You're so skinny," he says bluntly.

I blink at him, a little hurt. He blinks, and regret flashes in his eyes. I yank my shirt down and look out the window.

"Sorry it bothers you," I snap harshly, "But there weren't exactly a whole lot of cupcakes and brownies to snack on to keep me plump where I came from."

"I didn't mean it," he says, and I can't help but look at him. His gaze is serious. "Sorry. I just . . . I bet I could count every one of your ribs."

"I can," I inform him, "I have quite a few, actually."

He suddenly looks unexpectedly sympathetic, the last emotion I'd expect from him.

"Don't look at me like that," I say, "don't you dare. I got enough of that from people at school."

He nods, and the look is gone as quickly as it appeared. "Fine."

I can't help the hurt that continues to wash through me. It bothers me much more than it should that he may find me ugly. I mean, I'm not grade-A perfect or anything, but . . . I like the way he looks. I want him to like me that way, too, no matter how much I hate admitting it to myself.

"Try not to look at me too closely on our way to the Islands," I say bitingly, "you might hurt your eyes."

Irritation is suddenly lacing his words. "God, Chelsea, I didn't mean it like that. I just wondered . . ."

"You wondered. Is there a question in there, Vaughn? Because, you know, that might mean I'll have to tell you something about my past. But we agreed not to talk about it. I'm messed up. So are you. Who cares why."

Pain suddenly throbs in my head, and I lean it back against the headrest, angry my temper has caused me a headache.

He glares at me, and starts up to the car. "Fine, whatever."

**OoOoOoOoO**

We drive for a couple hours in silence, the tension between us thick. When he takes an exit off in the interstate, we're suddenly driving through another town, this one bigger than the last. It's cloudy and muggy today; the weather matches my mood.

"What're we stopping for?" I ask, the first words between us in a while. I somewhat regret lashing out earlier, and I try to make my voice as amiable as possible.

"Bathroom break," he growls, not looking away from the road.

Obviously, he's still upset. It doesn't surprise me at all that he's the type of person to hold a grudge. I sigh, and we pull into the parking lot of a hardware store. A bit of a random choice, but whatever.

Maybe we just need to figure out a better way of communicating. Too bad I have no idea how to go about doing that. He gets out of the car without another word to me, pops the truck, grabs a big backpack, slips it onto his shoulders, and heads for the doors. I follow him into the store after grabbing my own backpack, but – surprise, surprise – the lady working says it doesn't have a bathroom.

We decide instead to walk to the McDonalds down the street. When we step inside, I'm assaulted by the smell of food, and my stomach rumbles, reminding me that it's time to eat. Ignoring it for the time being, we go our separate ways at the restroom doors. I look into the mirror and sigh at the dark circles under my eyes.

I never sleep well on the nights I have nightmares. And with how nerve-wracking my situation is now, my subconscious is probably loaded with them. I tie my hair back into a ponytail and – since no one is in here with me – I pull my shirt up a little, to just under my breasts. I _am _grossly skinny.

Of course he would notice. I run a finger across my ribs, wincing at how defined they are. I let my shirt drop back down and trudge toward one of the stalls, resisting the urge to slam it behind me.

After I'm done, I wash my hands and walk out of the bathroom. Vaughn's already there, his eyes darting around nervously. I realize that we're not so far away from home yet to stop worrying about being recognized.

When the Crazies and his parents report our absence to the police, they'll keep an eye out for the teenage runaways. And, if they catch us, we'll both be right back where we started. I shudder at that last thought, and I pull the hood of my sweatshirt up over my head, suddenly just as edgy as Vaughn looks.

When he sees me, he leads me to one of the tables – away from the window, I notice – and we sit.

"We have to get as far away as we can today; we're less likely to be recognized far away," I say as he rummages through his backpack.

He nods, his eyes on his work. "Yeah, I know."

He tosses me a little bag of Cheetos, and takes out a bag of Lays for himself. Then he fishes out another apple and sets the bag down beside him. He sets the fruit in front of me and rips the bag open.

"We'll stop at a gas station or something along the way and pick up some food," he says.

"When you say 'pick up' . . . ," I ask.

"Steal," he says bluntly.

I sigh. "Guess so."

I begin eating the chips – they taste amazing – and I wonder idly if the McDonalds people will kick us out for eating our own food here. I notice the lines under his eyes, almost identical to mine.

"You still look tired," I say.

"So do you," he replies, "We probably will be until we get there."

"I wish I could drive. Then you wouldn't have to go the whole way until we ditch the car."

He shrugs. "I'll be fine."

His voice doesn't waver, and I eye him critically. "You wouldn't tell me if you weren't."

"Probably not."

We stare at each other for a moment; it's so easy to lose myself in his intense gaze. Hesitantly, my hand reaches across the table, and I lightly place my hand over his.

"You can be honest with me, you know."

Vaughn surprisingly doesn't jerk his hand away. He just stares down at them, as if physical contact with another human being is completely foreign to him. I can emphasize with that feeling. Just this simple touch has my breath caught in my throat.

Unexpectedly, he smiles, just a little. "I'm not sure I know how."

I chuckle. "I get that."

I pull my hand back – reluctantly, and turn my attention back to the chips. When we're both done with the too-small bags, I pick up the apple.

"Don't you have another one of these?"

"No. Just that one left."

"Don't you want to share it?"

"No."

I glare at him. "Please don't act like you're not hungry."

He doesn't even bother to lie. "I am."

"Then let's split it," I say. We're both hungry. There's one apple. We should split it. Seems logical to me.

He's returning my dirty look now. "You can have it."

I rub my temple with a few fingers. "Vaughn, why do you feel the need to exasperate me every five minutes?"

I pull the pocketknife from the pocket of my jeans. He suddenly snatches the apple of the table the second the blade jumps out.

"Chelsea. Put it away."

I do. "Why are you being so stubborn about this?"

"Because you need it more than I do," he snaps, slamming the apple down in front of me, and earning a few sidelong looks from the people sitting around us. I hated that he wanted me to have it because he knew I was too thin.

I didn't care if I needed it more; we were in this together.

"I told you before," I say quietly, "I don't want you to pity me."

He waits for me to meet his eyes before I speak again. His voice is soft, the angry tone gone.

"I'm not pitying you. I'm just . . ." He trails off.

"Trying to be nice?"

He snorts. "Sure. Let's go with that."

"I'll mark it on the calendar."

"You do that."

I eat the apple quickly, wishing I wasn't still hungry after I was finished. We exit the fast food joint and start walking down the street. We turn the corner, around the hardware store. And stop dead in our tracks.

Two police officers are standing next to our car; one is looking in through the window. Vaughn swears next to me, and grabs my arm, pulling me back. But the second officer has already seen us.

All I hear him yell is "Hey!" before the both of us spin on our heels and run like hell.


	8. Cooperation

_7: Cooperation_

_**Coming together is a beginning; keeping together is progress; working together is success. -**__  
><em>**Henry Ford**

We race around the corner of the hardware store without looking back. I don't have to; I know we're being followed.

By both cops. Their pursuing footsteps and voices are right behind us now, and I am desperate to get away. I know Vaughn is, too. If they catch us, we'll be shopped back unwillingly to our previous lives.

It might as well be the Crazies themselves chasing us.

Vaughn grabs my hand as we run, and I follow his lead. Normally I have fairly good stamina when it comes to running, but hunger has made me weak. Still, I push my body on with single-minded determination, ignoring the officers yelling at us to stop.

We barrel across a two-lane street, and a car honks as it nearly flattens me. We run past an IHOP, a bowling alley, a deli and a whole mess of other things before we stumble upon the library, which is conveniently tucked away in a fairly wooded area. We duck behind the trees next to the parking lot; when I stop, my legs tremble, and I have to lean against a tree for support.

Beside me, Vaughn's also breathing heavily, and he copies my tree idea.

"Did we . . . lose them?" I pant.

He peers out between the trees, eyeing the library parking lot with suspicious.

"Think so," he replies, but continues to watch for several minutes. When he's satisfied we're alone, he groans and sinks to the ground, swearing under his breath.

"I guess they didn't waste any time reporting the car," I say. Sighing, I sit down next to him, grateful that we both have our backpacks, at least.

"They sure as hell didn't," he says bitterly, "We should have been more careful. I didn't plan on ditching the car this early."

"Well, there's no getting it back now."

"I _know,_" he snaps, his eyes flashing angrily.

I get to my feet and walk a ways away from him, giving him time to think in peace. It sucks about the car; it really does. But all I can feel at this moment is an overpowering sense of relief at having escaped what could have been a very nasty situation. But then it really hits me; all those supplies we had stored are gone, which means we'll be stealing twice as much as we would have before to survive.

We've lost a somewhat safe place to sleep, and will have to look for decent places from now on. And, of course, there's a lot more ground to cover by foot or bus than we planned.

The chances of the two of us arriving safely at Sunshine Islands has just decreased severely.

Tears sting in my eyes at that last thought, but I blink them away and wipe the dirt from my hands on my jeans. I can't think about all the odds stacked against us right now; if I do, I will fall apart. So I focus on what I do have; a backpack with a few supplies, safety from the police (for now), and a traveling partner.

A very pissed off traveling partner, but still.

I sit down beside Vaughn again. A cold breeze blows past us, and I shiver, knowing that it'll just get worse as night creeps up on us.

"Hey," I say quietly.

He doesn't respond, but I do receive a quick glance from those amethyst eyes.

"It's going to be okay," I say, hoping it's not a lie.

He sighs. "Okay," he agrees, though I know he doesn't.

"We need to take this one step at a time; just think about what we're going to do next. Don't think too far into the future. I suggest we start traveling in the morning. Maybe we can catch a bus."

I try to make my voice sound hopeful, but I sort of fail.

Vaughn nods. "And we need to stay out of sight; those two cops aren't the only ones looking for us."

"I know," I grumble, "what a pain in the ass."

He chuckles, and I'm happy to have made him feel a little better. He gets to his feet and holds out a hand to help me up. I don't really need it, but I don't mind using it as an opportunity to touch him.

I sort of love that tingly feeling I get in my fingers and the pit of my stomach. I expect him to drop my hand immediately after he helps me, but surprisingly he keeps hold of it, and I don't object. The big clock mounted above the library doors proclaim that it is four 'clock. Knowing that winter is almost upon us, the days grow dark sooner rather than later.

"I think I saw a 7-11 a while back when we were running. Should we go there?" He asks this casually as we step into the parking lot and out of the mini-woods, as if commenting about the chill in the air.

I shrug. "I don't know. Gas stations don't sell the most nutritious stuff, you know. If I had the choice, I'd rather go to Wal-Mart or something."

"I guess. It's just a little harder, though. More cameras and irritating little people posed at the doors, telling you to have a good day."

I laugh, and realize that I haven't done so in quite a while. The fact that I still can – even in this crappy situation – gives me a strange sense of courage. "It's worth the risk. We have to at least try to eat as healthily as we can. I can usually run pretty far, but getting away from the cops exhausted me, and I think it's because I'm so damn hungry."

Vaughn hesitates for a moment, indecision clear in his face.

"For just the past day?" he asks finally.

My amusement instantly vanishes. "No. I've been hungry for a long time."

He nods thoughtfully as we walk down the sidewalk, keeping our eyes open for a good-sized grocery store.

"Yeah, that would definitely make me leave. Being starved." He glares at the sidewalk.

"Well, it's obviously not why you left," I say.

"No, it's not."

I don't press, because I know if I do he won't answer anything I'm curious about right now. But I have this odd hope that, maybe, in the future, he will at some point. I know it's ridiculous to get my hopes up, but on a subconscious level, I can't help it.

I keep a wary eye on the road for cops. And it suddenly strikes me that we look very conspicuous. There is one major advantage and one major disadvantage to traveling with Vaughn.

The advantage is that he looks a lot older than he actually is (a number I'm still not sure about exactly, but he was in my year of school, so he has to be extremely close to my age), so nobody gives us that, "Who are you dirty teenagers and where are your mothers?" look, and it's easy to assume that we're over twenty and capable adults.

The major disadvantage is that Vaughn is very noticeable. I mean, if you put me in a big, crowded room, it would probably take me five seconds to find him. Who else his age has silver hair and eyes that are purple?

To put it simply, if there was a book series called Where's Vaughn? Instead of Where's Waldo?, all you would have to do is glance at the illustrations to find him. This is a very aggravating fact when you are evading the police.

So, as we walk, I very kindly and tentatively suggest to Vaughn that he dye his hair, and then explain my reasons why. He pulls his hand out of mind and glowers, so it's immediately clear that he isn't fond of the idea.

"I will not dye my hair," he says firmly.

I exhale sharply. "Don't you think it would make us less easy to spot?" I ask.

Truthfully, I don't want him to dye his hair. It was the first thing I noticed about him, and I've always imagined it would feel very soft. But I'm trying to set my emotions aside and be logical.

"Maybe," he admits, "but I'm still not doing it."

"Why not?"

"I don't want to."

"Vaughn, we're running away. People are after us. If we were sent back, both sets of our supposed parents would kill us. I hardly think that this is the time to be vain. We could dye it black – you favorite color."

"We're not going to be around here for that long. The further we get, the less we have to worry about. I can lie low and until then and so can you."

I stick my tongue out at him, and he smirks.

"Okay," I sigh, "but I'm dying your hair in your sleep if we keep getting chased all over town because you can always spot the silver haired guy."

It feels good to joke with him like this, like we're two friends taking a leisurely stroll, instead of two runaway teens desperately trying to get to a string of Islands north of Hawaii.

"Good luck," he says, his voice lighter than I've ever hear it, "I'm a light sleeper."

I laugh again, and just for a moment, bask in the happiness it brings. As we walk, he hand brushes mine, and I consider re-taking it. But it feels too bold, and – much as I hate to admit it – I am a little shy. We glance at each other and he's smiling a little. But then I spot a police car a ways ahead, parked by a Best Buy, and we walk in the other direction. When I look at Vaughn again, his eyes have hardened, and I know the moment between us is gone.

"I think we should have the agreement that, if one of us gets caught, the other should keep going," he says after a minute.

I see a Safeway up ahead, point it out, and that's where we head. We cross a street and move into the parking lot. I spin to face him beside someone's beat up Toyota.

"You mean we shouldn't try to help each other?" I raise a questioning eyebrow at him.

He has that expressionless look again, the perfect poker face. "We should help," he says passively, "but one of us should be able to make it to the Islands. If one of us gets caught and the other comes back to help, then we're both screwed if it doesn't work."

"Fine," I agree, "But when we run, we run together."

He nods, and we stare at each other.

"I need to be able to trust you," I say honestly, and it's true. We're going to be leaning on each other a lot through this, and it would really suck if he suddenly bolted or stabbed me in the back. My attraction to him would only intensify said suckiness.

A flash of emotion flickers through his eyes at my words, but it's gone before I can place it. His expression turns calculating.

"You can trust," he says slowly, choosing his words with care, "that I won't abandon you, that I will help you. But . . ." he looks away, exhaling sharply. "You should also keep in mind that, even though I'd prefer to have you with me, ultimately, my main goal is to get there myself."

I blink at him, a little hurt, but then I remember that we're both escaping awful situations, and we have to put ourselves first. I must always remember that. We're traveling together, but that doesn't mean we have to be BFFs.

"I understand," I say, "And you can trust that from me, too."

"Good." Vaughn nods, and inclines his head towards the store. "So, how do you wanna do this?"

I eye the store warily, as if there are armed guards inside, ready to pounce on the first suspicious person by the produce section.

"Well," I say, biting my lip, "I'm sure it has some kind of cameras. But, I don't know, I think they'd probably be mostly centered on electronics and expensive things people might take."

He nods. "Yeah, probably."

We begin to walk towards the store. We try to look innocent and everything, but like I said before, we're pretty conspicuous. And the fact that we both have on backpacks and are now slightly dirt from the wooded area by the library just adds to this.

So it's unsurprising when one of Safeway's employees spots us as we walk in through the automatic sliding doors.

"Hey," he calls, just as we're about to turn down aisle two.

"You have to leave backpacks at the registers," he says sternly.

"Oh. Sure," I say, making my voice sound sweet and compliant. If I make a big fuss about the backpack, he might assume that we want them with us in the store for a reason. An illegal reason.

Inside, though, I am glaring at the barely-taller-than me, irritating little man. He's got beady eyes and two fairly large zits on his chin. He reminds me of a weasel. Still, I smile at him politely and begin walking back to the registers.

Vaughn, however, shoots weasel-man a nasty look before we leave his line of sight.

"Be nice," I snap at him quietly, "I don't want us any more noticeable than we already are."

He rolls his eyes. "Snot-nosed, beady-eyed little bastard," he grumbles, more to himself than to me.

We offer our backpacks to the woman behind cashier six, who puts them on her little shelf with a smile. We then walk back towards the aisles.

"Okay," I say quietly once we're safely alone beside the Captain Crunch cereal. "We need nonperishable stuff, and we need to be quick."

"Right. Let's meet back at the registers in twenty minutes."

I nod. "To get the backpacks."

"Yeah, and to buy something."

I raise an eyebrow at him questioningly.

"It'll be less suspicious," he explains, "and it shows people that we actually came here to get something, not to just wonder around for a while and then leave. Nobody comes to a grocery store for nothing."

I nod. He makes a valid point. "Okay," I say again, "Registers. Twenty minutes. Nonperishable items."

I turn and try to walk away, but he touches my arm and I spin to face him again. He has another unnamable emotion in his eyes, and I wonder if I'll be able to read his face better after we've spent more time together.

"Don't get caught," he says simply, and I think that maybe I detect a note of concern in his tone.

"I won't," I reply, "I've done this before. _You _don't get caught."

He smirks at me. "I won't."

Rolling my eyes and smiling a little at his arrogance, I turn and again walk away. I slip little packs of cashews in my pockets in one of the aisles, and slip a package of beef jerky under my shirt in another. I always make sure nobody is watching, and I move silently across the floor.

I take some kind of nutrition bars, little packages of fruit snacks, and in the produce section, I slip two oranges into the deep front two pockets of my sweatshirt. I also take a couple little bags of carrots.

I've tucked my t-shirt into my jeans beneath my sweatshirt to hold a bunch of the items. I crinkle a little when I walk, so I have to be careful. The lump under my clothes makes me look either fat or pregnant. I snort at the thought as I look around for my thing to buy. Like either of those things has a remote chance of occurring any time soon.

On a whim, I grab a family-sized bag of Cheetos, just because I want to get them and there's no way it'll fit with my stolen items. The clock mounted to the store wall next to the deli proclaims that almost twenty minutes has passed, so I go to the registers, were Vaughn is already waiting.

He doesn't seem nervous at all, and I wonder if the idea of us really getting caught doing this is really a serious concern for him. Maybe he's done it more than I originally thought. But why would he? He obviously eats.

I mean, he's tall and thin, but that's because he's built that way, not because he lacks food. Hopefully he's not secretly a kleptomaniac. The thought makes me smile, and he shockingly returns it, one corner of his mouth turning up in amusement.

"What is it?" he says quietly.

I shake my head at him and wait in line at the register with the girl who has our backpacks. I glance down at his hand, and am surprised to see that the item he has chosen to buy legally is a half-gallon of skim milk.

I shoot him an annoyed glance, so he's knows that I don't approve of his choice. He just shrugs back at me. When it's our turn, the girl – who is maybe eighteen, nineteen, with curly blonde hair and eyes that are dazzlingly blue – gives us our bags and rings up the cheeots and milk.

"How are you doing today?" she asks, and I'm about to answer when I realize that she's looking at Vaughn.

He smiles at her, and suddenly I'm regretting my earlier request for him to be nice. I'd much prefer him to glare at this too-pretty stranger.

"We're fine, thank you," he says, much more politely than I'm used to.

"You guys live around here?" Blondie asks, still not looking at me.

"No, not at all," I snap, irritated. I grab the bag of our purchases – which has been double-bagged, for sturdiness – and let it fall against my hip, which is a bad decision because suddenly there's a too loud crinkle from under my shirt. Thankfully, Blondie doesn't seem to notice. She makes a pouty face that makes me want to puke.

"That sucks. Maybe" – I hand her my fifty dollar bill, and she quickly makes change and counts it back to me.

"Bye," I say before she can finish her sentence.

We hurry – not _too _fast – to the exit doors, where weasel man bids us goodbye.

"See ya," I mutter at him, wondering how he'd react if given the finger.

Vaughn and I walk a good distance away from the store, towards a street lined with semi-nice houses with pretty autumn leaves scattered over the front yards. We sit down on a bench that marks a bus stop and smile.

"We didn't get caught," I say.

"Nope."

"Maybe this a sign of all our good fortune to come."

He laughs, and I commit the sound to memory, as I don't want to forget what it sounds like. "Don't say that; you'll jinx us."

I held up my hands in mock-horror. "Oh, right, sorry. So, what did you get? I mean, besides the milk, which, by the way, is the exact opposite of _nonperishable._"

"Sorry, but we can drink it today before it goes bad. Anyway." From beneath his black hoodie, he produces another package of jerky, one of those individually packaged tiny sandwiches in an equally tiny box, a little tin of cookies, and a plastic jar of multi-vitamins.

"I can get on board with the vitamins," I say, "but cookies?"

"They go with the milk."

I laugh, and then show him what I got. He wrinkles his nose at the carrots. "Ugh. I hate those," he says.

"Beggars can't be choosers, Vaughn," I say.

We divide our stuff and stow it in our backpacks. I pull out one of my bottles of water and we share it. Just as we've almost finished it, though, I feel a cold, wet drop on my nose.

"Crap!" I jump off the bench and look up at the dark grey sky. "We need to find someplace with a roof, stat."

He nods, and we begin to wonder around, searching. As we look, the rain steadily begins to come down harder, and harder, until what feels like a river is pouring down from the heavens and I'm completely drenched.

Finally, we take shelter in someone's garden shed. Sopping wet and shivering, I close the door behind us and take in the sparse surroundings; a dirty shovel, a box of seeds, a table, pairs of gloves and various other gardening supplies.

A violent shiver rips through me, and my teeth begin to chatter. I am so, _so _cold. Vaughn's in a about the same shape; water drips down his nose, beads on his lashes. It turns his silvery hair a much darker color, a dark grey that, if you didn't look to closely, could almost pass as black. He, too, shivers.

"We need to change," he says, "I hope you brought extra clothes."

"Yeah, one set," I say.

My backpack drops to the floor and I rummage through the food and other supplies until I find what I'm looking for.

"Um," I say, my cheeks reddening a little. "Turn around, and don't, uh . . ."

Amusement flashes in his violet eyes. "I won't look if you don't," he teases.

I blush even redder at this comment. "I, um, won't," I promise.

_Even though I kind of want to, _says a teensy voice in the back of my head.

We both turn, and I strip off my wet clothes and hurriedly dress in the dry ones. Even though I know he won't look – he doesn't strike me as that kind of guy – being in my underwear in the same room as him makes me embarrassed and red, now, as a beet.

When I'm fully dressed, I lay my soaked clothes on the table and hope they dry overnight. I sure as hell won't be leaving them behind. I peek behind me and see Vaughn pulling another sweatshirt over his head, extremely similar to the black hoodie he was just wearing.

"Why do you always wear black?" Something about the rain and the wind roaring like a wild animal outside makes my voice quiet and hushed.

He blinks at me and looks down at his clothes, as if it never occurred to him before that his wardrobe consists of only one color.

"I don't know." He shrugs. "It's dark. Easier to blend in with."

I nod. "Oh."

We sit on the ground and split the gallon of milk, the sandwiches, a cookie, and we each have a piece of jerky and a vitamin. They're the gummy, kid kind, but I don't care. When we're done eating, I feel content, and it's so nice to not have the Crazies dictating what I do and do not eat. We put the food away and then stare at each other.

"I guess we should try to get some sleep," I say eventually, "We gotta be outta here, though, early in the morning. I'm guessing whoever lives in that house won't be crazy about the idea of two runaway teens sleeping over in his garden shed."

"Probably not," he agrees. I shiver again; even in dry clothes, the chill is still with me, running so deep it seems to have settled in my bones, hardened my joints. My toes are numb, despite the two pairs of socks.

"We need to stay warm," he says, and then gets up and begins poking around the shed. When he returns, he's got a blue tarp in his hands.

"Not the warmest thing by any means," he says, sitting down and leaning against a corner of the shed, "But it'll do."

He spreads the tarp – the crinkles it makes would put my little Safeway crinkles to shame – over his body, and then pulls one corner of it back up, inviting me in. Swallowing against a sudden lump in my throat, I inch under it until I'm sitting several inches away from him.

"Um, goodnight," I say, leaning my head back against the wall and shutting my eyes.

Lying down would be nicer, but I can conserve more head with my arms wrapped around my knees. Suddenly, without warning, I feel hands on my waist. Wordlessly, Vaughn sits me on his lap and wraps his arms tight around me, the tarp tight around both of us, his chin on my head.

I feel very lightheaded for a minute or so, and I realize that it's because I've suddenly forgotten how to breathe. All I can think about is how much we're touching, and about how my skin suddenly my skin feels very warm where it's touching his.

Even though it's still chilly, the cold becomes much more manageable, though sleep seems impossible at the moment. He's holding me tightly, and it's easy to imagine that I'm something precious to him, something he wants to protect.

Caught up in the seeming intimacy of the moment, I say, "I'm glad I came with you."

He hesitates, and for a moment all I hear is the pattering of the rain.

"I am, too," he says finally.

Time passes with us huddled together like this, and when I am finally drowsy enough to sleep, I do so with a smile on my lips.

**A/N: Reviews are appreciated. **


	9. Survival

_7: Survival _

"_**Come what may, all bad fortune is to be conquered by endurance."**__**  
><strong>_**_- _**_**Virgil**_

When I wake, my head is still on Vaughn's chest, but his is leaned back against the wall, and his eyes are still closed.

I can still hear the rain pattering against the window; though not as heavy as it was last night, it makes me wince. For a moment, I just lay there, enjoying the feeling of being wrapped in his arms, not allowing myself to wonder about why I am so comfortable here.

I cannot deny the undeniable pleasure that shot throughout my body when he gathered me in his arms last night. I know it doesn't mean anything, I know the feeling of intimacy was wrong and all in my heard last night, but I'll always have the memory.

It feels good to make a nice memory after all the crappy ones I've had; at least, if I die on the way to Sunshine Islands, I will have one good thing to reflect on before I go. Slowly, trying not to wake him, I detangle my limbs from his and slide away; the tarp crinkles loudly as I move.

But I manage to get away without him stirring, and I stretch quietly, a little stiff from the way I slept. Thankfully, there had been no nightmares plaguing me.

I begin to hunt through the shed more thoroughly than last night, hoping that its owner has an umbrella stashed around here somewhere – the long, awkward shape of it will make it difficult to steal.

But I only encounter more gardening tools. Just as I am considering taking the clippers as some kind of awkward weapon, I hear the tarp cracking behind me, and whirl to see Vaughn standing with sleepy eyes.

He yawns, and stretches the same way I did.

"Good morning," I say, averting my eyes quickly.

My cheeks redden, but I am at loss as to why. A mix of emotions flit through me; embarrassment, delight, and . . . gratitude? As if thanking him for his affection last night wouldn't sound incredibly awkward and just plain weird. I imagine the sentence "thank you for holding me" passing through my lips, and I cringe.

He seems unaware of my little internal fit, just walks to the window and frowns at the rain. "This sucks," he mutters. I snort and join him, abandoning the clippers. They'd take up too much room in my backpack anyway.

"I want to stop by a store today," I say conversationally, trying desperately not to notice his hand brushing mine on the windowsill and the particularly sexy way his hair is sticking up in all different directions. "And find a bus pass, and maybe an umbrella. I don't think we can steal it, so we may have to buy it legally."

"Damn," he says, a joking glint in his eye, "Where's the fun in that?"

I roll my eyes at him and walk over to the table, where we laid our wet clothes to dry last night. They're still a little wet, but that's unsurprising; the humidity in here almost feels like a mist, clinging to my skin and hair.

They're also somewhat dirty, so I really don't want to wear them till I can properly wash them unless I absolutely have to. I fold mine carefully and make room for them in the backpack.

"How long have you been up?" he asks.

"Just a couple minutes; I was looking around the shed a little more."

"Find anything useful?" He sounds hopeful.

I half smile at him. "Not unless you think we need the tarp blanket every night."

"Not really."

I pulled out both the oranges from yesterday, and we both have one for breakfast; the burst of flavor in my mouth from the wedges is heaven. I feel so yucky; my morning breath must be awful, my body feels sticky, and there's dirt on my jeans that must have come from the tarp.

"Also," I add, "I think we need to find a shower, or a lake, or _something _to get clean in."

He snorts. "I agree."

When the oranges are gone, I pull out the little bag of carrots. Vaughn sees them and immediately winces.

"What?" I wonder, ripping open the plastic and offering him the vegetable.

He shakes his head and says, "Keep them."

"Vaughn, I don't want you to not eat for my sake again."

"Trust me, I'm _not _trying to be nice this time. I hate carrots."

My eyes widen in disbelief at his statement. "Beggars can't be choosers, you know. We need to eat to stay alive. Now, have one."

He pushes my hand away. "I think I would rather die."

"Vaughn, what are you, _three? _Didn't your mom explain to you then that you have to eat vegetables to grow up big and strong?" I try to make my voice light and teasing, but his violet eyes darken at my words, and he glares.

"Don't bring her up. I don't want to think about any of that shit right now, Chelsea." He looks back out the window, his jaw clenched tightly.

I instantly regret my attempt to kid around with him, making a mental note not to bring up this subject again. Unless he wanted me to. I sigh, and stuff the carrots into my mouth, barely noticing their taste. It feels like I'm swallowing gravel. I stuff the bag into my pocket and get to my feet, staring down at him with apologetic eyes.

"Sorry," I say, not wanting to fight.

He shrugs, stands, and goes to fold his clothes from the table. When we both have our backpacks on and are ready to take on the day (yeah, right), I scan the shed one more time; Vaughn's folded the tarp and put it back where we found it, and everything looks to be in order.

No reason for the owner of this shed to know they'd been harboring runaways on her property last night. Thankfully, by the time we set off down the sidewalk, the rain has stopped altogether, though gray clouds still linger in the sky, threatening to drench us at any point.

For a brief second, I wish I had Crazy Number One's Smartphone; it always predicts the weather a week in advance. Maybe we could find a Café or something with a TV that was showing the news.

We both keep a wary eye out for police officers as we walk, and I don't see any, but I'm always tense, poised to take off whenever I need to. After all, I can't necessarily count on Vaughn to do anything about it if I'm caught; he said so himself.

I remember this as we walk side by side silently, reminding myself for the thousandth time to cast aside my attraction. We find a store not too far away from the library we hid at yesterday, and we split up in search of our items.

I found a basic black umbrella for seven bucks, and I winced at giving up even that much cash. I held onto it until I met back up with Vaughn to look at the schedule. The next bus stop near here was a few blocks away, and in an hour and a half.

We fork over the seven dollars for the umbrella – plus tax, as we are not in Montana or Oregon – and meander back outside. When it begins to drizzle again, this time we're prepared for it. We have to huddle closely under the umbrella as we walk, though, and my awareness of that makes it hard to keep an eye out for police.

"So, what should we do with our free time?" I ask, once again trying to be light.

When he speaks, though, I know my attempt is wasted, because he just sounds sad. "Our budget allows very limited options."

"Unfortunately," I agree.

We find the bench where we need to wait for the bus, and I am grateful for the little overhang that allows us to close the umbrella. When we sit down and I can look at him properly, he has a grim expression on his face, his lips pursed tightly and dark shadows visible under his eyes.

He stares out at the road, not angry like he's seemed before, just exhausted and somewhat defeated.

"Still upset about the car?" I ask gently.

"Yeah," he answers quietly, "I am. But there's no use crying about anymore, I guess. I'm just tired."

"Didn't you sleep last night?" I know I did.

"No, I don't sleep very much. Maybe four or five hours a night or so."

"Just in general?"

"Yeah."

I pause, looking down at my hands. "I sleep, but with the nightmares, I might as well get that much sleep anyway. Last night was okay, though."

"Why?" he sounds genuinely curious.

"I . . . I don't know," I whisper.

"Oh."

The word hang in the air for a moment awkwardly. I look up from my hands and notice that, down the street, there's a line of people standing in front of a tiny trailer on wheels.

"I wonder what that is," I say out loud.

Vaughn shrugs. "Let's go see – we've got time."

We cross the street and approach the line. I tap the person in the back of it, a small woman with thinning black hair and lines so deeply etched in her face it looks like someone carved them there. She doesn't even look that old; maybe ten or fifteen years older than me, but she's rail thin, and when she speaks, I notice her teen are stained a dark yellow color.

Her eyes dart around nervously when I ask what's going on, like she expects ghost to be hiding in the bushes.

"It's for food," she says simply before turning back around and shuffling forward, her eyes now downcast.

It doesn't take a rocket scientist to understand that she's homeless, and probably on drugs. I shudder, knowing this is the kind of thing people can get into out here, drugs and prostitution, but I silently vow to myself then and there that I will never take up that kind of lifestyle. I would rather die.

Vaughn shoots me a grim look, his thoughts probably echoing mine. The rest of the people in line don't look much better, and I wonder how bad the homeless situation is in big cities, if there are problems like this in suburban areas.

The bigger cities must be crawling with them. I sigh, thinking that we don't look much better, and will be doing our best to survive like all the rest. A tall man ahead of the stick girl is muttering to himself under his breath – no, _arguing _with himself is more like it.

Or talking back to whomever is speaking in his head. I shiver and try to study other things as the line continues to shuffle forward. There's a woman standing behind an open in window in the tiny trailer, handing out sandwiches.

Now that I'm closer, I can see the bright red sign taped above the door, some kind of help the homeless organization. I know churches sometimes give food and clothes to people, and I hope that we will run into one on the way.

After the stick girl gets her sandwich, she scuttles away and disappears down an alley between two businesses, and I watch her go with sad eyes. When the woman – a short, older woman with black rimmed glasses and hair wrapped in a tight bun - behind the window sees us, she hands over the food, but she shakes her head in disapproval.

We're the last ones in line, so she closes the window after giving us a little wave, but before it shuts, I hear her murmur, "So young."

Vaughn and I wonder back to the bench and eat what the woman has given us – turkey and cheese. When we're done, we still have forty five minutes to wait. Even though I slept pretty well last night, I suddenly feel a wave of tiredness crash over me, and it could very possibly come from the peaceful sound of the rain slapping against the pavement.

I've always loved the sound, but rain has the uncanny habit of making me very sleepy. I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly a little cold, wishing more than anything I had a bed to rest in. Summoning all my courage, I scoot closer to Vaughn and rest my head on his shoulder.

He doesn't seem to mind; in fact, his arm wraps around my shoulders without comment. I'm glad we've reach some level of comfort with each other by now. But I don't have the energy for particularly deep thoughts at that moment, so I doze against him until the big white and blue bus chugs to a stop in front of us.

Vaughn shakes me gently awake and we step onboard. We pay the free and take seats in the back; I get the one by the window. Our stop will be the last one – the farthest this bus will take us from here, into what is actually a very large city.

I don't want to stay there long, though, maybe just for one night. After the city there's lots of farmland and fields, wide open spaces with buildings far and in between. I fall back to sleep on the bus, and I'm pretty sure he sleeps a little, too. When we reach our stop two hours later, I'm jolted awake again by Vaughn, who says it's time to wake up.

I yawn hugely, but get to my feet and follow him off the vehicle. We're in some sort of transit center, and I pause for moment to stretch my still sore limbs.

"So," I say, offering him a small smile, "We've made it to big city number one. And we're still alive!"

"That's a good sign," he says, smiling a little back, momentarily in a good mood.

We cross the street together, and I'm feeling jovial and well-rested and bold enough to take his hand. He lets me, and I remain unsurprised when he doesn't comment about the gesture of affection.

"We need to find somewhere to spend the night," I say, "Somewhere we can be safe."

"Not sure how safe it will be," Vaughn says, eyeing the massively tall buildings we pass, the throngs of people on the sidewalks we pass, all the lights, the cars, the hubbub of activity.

Occasionally we get a few looks from random pedestrians who pass us, but most just ignore us; like I thought before, the homeless must just be a normal, every day sight for the people living in this city.

"Did you have any ideas?" I ask as we stop at the end of one street, and wait for the little white stick man to show up on the sign, telling us it's okay to cross.

"Not really," he admits, wincing a little, "I thought, at first, that there might be some abandoned houses around, but those are likely taken by the homeless people who live here."

"And I imagine they're a bit territorial," I add sourly as we walk across.

"Probably."

I shake my head. There's a chill in the air here that wasn't in the suburban town, and it makes me nervous to know that winter is fast approaching. The snow and ice was merely an inconvenience back at the Crazies, but out here it could potentially be deadly.

We need to steal coats, scarves, gloves, boots, anything we can get our hands on. Granted, it won't be such a big deal once we get farther south – I mean, Sunshine Islands are north of Hawaii, for crying out loud.

"We'll find something," he promises, surprising me by squeezing my hand.

"Hope so," I mutter to myself.

Sleeping in one of the alleyways we're constantly passing doesn't seem like a bright idea – they're innocent and well lit right now, but at night, God only knows what lurks in the dark. We stop at a Starbucks, because I have to pee; he waits outside for me.

The smell of coffees and cookies and other such delicious items makes me want to cry when I go in, but I manage to ignore the feeling and head to the bathroom. But the door is locked. So I ask the man behind the counter about it, but he takes in my appearance, wrinkles his nose a little, and says only paying customers get a key inside.

I give him a hard look, but I order their smallest hot chocolate without argument – I have to go so badly right now I didn't think I could wait to find another bathroom. I also get Vaughn a little coffee, so I hope he likes coffee. I set the two drinks on the little shelf outside the bathroom door and head inside.

When I'm through, I take the beverages back outside. Vaughn raises a critical eyebrow at my purchases, and opens his mouth to comment.

"I had to buy something to get into the bathroom," I say before he can talk. I hand him the cup. "I hope you like coffee."

He shrugs and takes it, though he still looks annoyed. "I do," he grumbles.

We sit down at one of the little outdoor tables outside the doors and drink – the hot chocolate is heaven going down, and seems to warm my core from inside out. The warmth helps me out of the mood I'd been in, thinking about winter, and I study some of the businesses surrounding us, noticing a rack of clothes standing outside one of the doors across the street.

In the very front, there's a sky blue tank top with a splash of dark purple surrounding the sketch of a butterfly, and the word PEACE is proclaimed below it. I express my desire to have it to Vaughn, just making conversation.

He tips back the cup to get the last of the coffee, and then tosses it into a little garbage can by the door.

"If you want it so bad, then take it," he says simply.

I blink at him, and then disapproval creases my brow. "Vaughn, that would be wrong."

He seems surprised by my statement; his lovely eyes widen a little. "Why? We've always taken things to get by."

"Yeah, but everything I've ever taken I've actually _needed," _I say, "Need, not want. To me, taking something just because you _want _it isn't the same thing."

He gives me a long, hard stare, but finally says, "Yeah I guess you're right."

I'm not sure if he really agrees with me or not, because I can't decipher any emotion in his face. I finish my drink too, and we head off again. After a while, I begin to wonder if we've wandered into downtown, because the businesses and buildings seem to have gotten a little less refined with every step we take.

At regular intervals, I spy people who obviously don't have anywhere to go. They're usually not out in the open, always on the periphery of things, but definitely there, shadows hiding in nooks and crannies, where they can be ignored. It's probably even worse at night.

We run into yet another grocery store and go in, agreeing for more nonperishable items, and no more milk. I make him promise this specifically before we spilt up and agree to meet back outside the store, since nobody seems to have noticed us, partly because there really isn't that many people here.

If someone gets suspicious, I'll buy a pack of gum or something, but for now, I just want to lay low and get out of here without purchasing anything; I'm still pissed about the drinks from Starbucks, even if they _were _delicious.

I find the restrooms in the back and take a long drink from the fountain by the doors; then I refill my one empty water bottle. Back by the food, I slip an apple under my shirt, a few candy bars, some kind of packaged granola, and I really want to take some canned items, so I grab a little can of peaches.

Then I manage to get my cans on a can opener, which doesn't feel too comfortable pressed against my bare skin. A woman in the aisle gives me a funny look as I pass by, and if the bulge under my clothes doesn't look quite right to her, but I hightail it out before she can say anything.

That's about all I can fit at the moment, so I slip out of the store and stand behind somebody's big, black SUV in the parking lot, stuffing the stolen items into my backpack, which is a little too full for my liking.

When my bag's back on my shoulders, I wrap my arms around myself to keep some warmth in my body now that I'm back outside rather than in the semi-warm store. My feet ache from walking for too long, and I know without looking that a blister the size of Texas is forming on my heel.

Despite trying to keep as clean as possible, I still feel unbearably icky, and I wonder if there's a public restroom or something around here with a shower. I'll definitely be keeping an eye out for one. Even though Vaughn's probably feeling about as crappy as me, we don't complain about it to each other if we can help it.

Talking about the pain in our feet and other aches like that only seem to make them more real, more intense. If we ignore them and pretend like they aren't there, they don't go away, but at least I can push them to the back of my mind and think about more pressing issues, like where we'll sleep tonight or which store or gas station is the best option for stealing.

I lean against the car and close my eyes for a moment, and try to think of nothing at all, to relax for just a moment before the craziness that has become my life begins anew. When I feel calmer, I eye the doorway of the store, shifting my weight from foot to foot to stay warm.

I start getting impatient, so I eye the other buildings around the store, and notice how old and broken some of them seem. Bricks cracking, bits of plaster littered on the sidewalks, windows that could probably shatter if I breathe on them wrong. Even the store I just came out of looks ugly and ill-kept.

I spy a little clothing store a ways away, and I'm wondering if I could get away with a coat or something. Since Vaughn's taking his sweet time, I guess I might as well to something productive in his absence.

I hurry over to the store, and it strikes me how quickly and quietly I've learned to run. I clime the three steps to the shop, open the door and wince at the sound of bells that ding above it as I enter. A man, probably in his late fifties or early sixties, stands behind the counter and gives me a nod.

"Hello, can I help you?" he asks, his voice hopeful.

"No, I'm just looking," I lie, turning and pretending to be interested in a pair of shoes that look laughably incapable of withstanding my winter journey.

The man nods again, and goes back to reading a small paperback I hadn't noticed in his hands. I saunter around the store for a little while, watching him closely from the corner of my eye. But he hasn't looked up once since greeting me, so for a bit I go about looking for what I came to get.

I finally find a coat that would do, with warm fabric on the inside and lots of pockets that would come in handy. I really want to get one for Vaughn, too, but I doubt I could successfully get away with two big coats.

The man will probably look up again to say goodbye, so I'll have to be quick. Gently, I slip the coat off the hanger, make sure it's in my size – it is – and walk over to a small display of earrings by the door, pretending to look.

A nervous ball has coiled in my stomach, but I reach for the door anyway. When the man hears the bells – those bloody, stupid bells – he looks up and says, "Good" – but he stops short when he sees the coat in my hands.

"Hey, what are" – he starts again, but instead of sticking around to hear him, I slip out the door and nearly fall down the stairs.

I regain my footing at the base of them just in time to trip on a small patch of ice I'd neglected to notice earlier. I land squarely on my back, and the air whooshes out of me; for a second, I can't breathe.

I suck in a breath, and try to scramble back onto my feet. Before I can, though, I feel the sharp pain of somebody's shoe being buried in my ribs. I gasp in pain as the coat is forcefully ripped from my hands. The shop owner glares down at me with sharp, unmerciful eyes.

"You're lucky I don't call the police, you little rat," he snarls, kicking me once again for good measure. Then he whirls and stomps back up the stairs, shouting, "Now get away from here!" before disappearing back inside.

I moan a little, and then manage to stand, with both hands pressed against my ribs as sharp pains shoot through them. Luckily he didn't break anything, but it hurts so bad. And all because I slipped on a freaking patch of ice.

I _know _better that to overlook those kinds of details, I kick my own self mentally for being so dumb. Next time, I won't be so distracted. I glance up at the window of the shop and see the man, glaring at me menacingly, and I know I better get out of here fast, or he _will _call the cops and I will be officially screwed.

I stumble into an alleyway between his store and another, more broken looking building. It's not exactly away, but at least I'm out of his sight for a minute while I recuperate from his blows. It is here I encounter another person, one who was, a moment ago, standing behind a dumpster, where I couldn't see.

I hear a snicker, and then a man slinks out of the shadows, and I flinch, my muscles tensing for a fight. The man has greasy sandy brown hair that reaches his shoulders, and he's not exactly muscular, but just because he doesn't look it doesn't mean he's not strong.

His teeth are the same yellowish color the stick girl's were beside the trailer, and he's wearing a red baseball cap pulled low over bloodshot blue eyes.

"Hey, baby, what's up?" he smiles at me, and I feel a wave of nausea at the suggestiveness in his tone.

"Get away from me," I warm him, edging back towards the mouth of the ally. He shrugs, but keeps stepping towards me.

"Hey, I just wanna talk." His front left tooth is chipped.

"Yeah, right," I say, "and if I believe that, you've got a bridge to sell me, right?"

The man snickers again, but it turns into a cough. "Funny girl," he comments, "but not to good at snatching, right? That old man laid into you like you were his own personal punchin' bag."

I open my mouth to reply, just before I bolt, but Vaughn appears out of nowhere beside me, and he glares at the man.

"Chelsea, what are you doing over here?" he asks, concern in his voice.

He wraps an arm protectively over my shoulder.

The man holds up his hands innocently. "Just talkin', man, just talkin'. You and me, we're in the same boat, ya know? Just tryin' to get by, just tryin' to keep on livin'. Ain't easy, but what can you do? Although."

He smiles a little at Vaughn, who continues to glower.

"I got a few bucks on me at the moment. Maybe I'll give 'em to you if you let me borrow your girl for a couple minutes."

My eyes widened, livid at his words. The way he talked about me, like I was a possession, like Vaughn owned me and could let someone else borrow me for sexual purposes, made me so angry I could spit.

So that's what I did; I gathered a bunch of spit and bile in my mouth and spat at the man; it landed on his neck and shoulder. He flinched and shot me a look, but otherwise didn't respond. Beside me, I could feel every muscle was completely rigid in Vaughn's body, and his teeth clenched together so hard I was sure they would crack.

"I don't think so," he says through them. "C'mon, Chelsea, let's go."

But as we turn, the man adds, "Aw, come on, dude, you know you want to. I could hold her down, and we could both have a go."

And there was no turning away at that point. Vaughn spun and tackled the man, and I heard the sickening crack of a fist against bone. The man let out a howl of pain, and the both of them roll away into the alley.

I hurry towards them, ready to help, but before I move I catch the gleam of something silver and sharp, and I yell as the little blade slashes across Vaughn's side. He yelps a little at the pain, but keeps on attacking the man, who by now looks just as furious as his opponent.

Both men get to their feet, and Vaughn gets hold of the man's head and smashes it against the brick alley wall. The little pocketknife the man had been holding slips from his fingers and clatters to the ground.

He collapses in a heap, and Vaughn staggers back, clutching his side, clearly in pain. I approach him slowly, and when I reach out to touch his shoulder, he whirls on me and blinks, as if surprised to see me there.

"Are you okay?" I ask, trying not to look at the man on the ground.

He nods once and brushes past me, hurrying out of the alley and back onto the street, a strange mix of horror and satisfaction in his eyes. I pause for a second beside the man before following Vaughn away from this awful place, running to keep up.

I don't have the courage to look closer and see if the man is still breathing or not.


	10. Closer

_8: Closer_

_**It**__** is easy to take off all your clothes and have sex, people do it all the time. But opening up your soul to someone, letting them into your spirit, thoughts, fears, future, hopes, and dreams . . . that's being naked.**_

_**Unknown**_

When we get a good distance between us and the alley, I expect Vaughn to stop sprinting and allow me to catch up with him.

But he doesn't; he just keeps on going. I call his name, tell him to stop, but either he doesn't hear me or doesn't care. He bolts across a street without bothering to wait for the signal, and I nearly get run over for the second time since running away in my pursuit.

Eventually I stop calling after him, needing to save my breath and energy. He'll have to stop at some point; I just need to worry about keeping up for now. We run and run and run for what seems like forever; we run until my calves' burn and I taste blood in my throat.

I can feel the beginnings of a light rain on my skin, and I could cry with relief at how good the cool mist feels. We would probably both be a lot faster if we didn't have our heavy packs to lug around, and with every step, the extra weight on my back burns.

When he comes to a tall fence enclosing something I can't see this far away yet, Vaughn tosses his bag over it, and then launches himself up it without a moment's hesitation. He jumps to the bottom, grabs the bag, and runs off again.

Panting, I come to a screeching halt at the fence, wondering if I possibly have the energy to climb it. Vaughn's clearly getting his burst of energy from adrenaline right now, but mine is nowhere to be seen.

I feel physically and emotionally drained after what just happened in the ally back by the coat shop; I'm awed that I managed to follow him all the way here. But what if he just keeps running, far, far away?

What if we get separated in this big city and I never see him again?

What if I now have to make my way to the Islands completely alone?

Would he just leave me here like this?

Even after all we've worked for and planned thus far in our all-or-nothing trip to escape hell?

For a moment, panic closes my throat and I'm rooted to the spot. Even though running away by myself was my original idea, before Vaughn volunteered to go with me, the thought of completing this journey by myself frightens me.

I've grown quite accustomed to having him around, even though we've only really been gone a few days. Besides that, I wasn't sure I could just move on if I couldn't find him. If I did get to the Islands and get the job, I'd spend the rest of my life wondering what happened to him.

And not knowing will torment me for the rest of my days. I bite my lip and force myself to get a grip. The fence I'm standing by encloses a children's playground, complete with swings, a jungle gym, slides, a see-saw, and a few things whose purpose is not totally obvious.

There's also a long brick building that stands beside a sprawling green field. I scan it for Vaughn, because there's no place I couldn't see him, not with no trees or rocks or whatever to block my view.

But I see not a trace of him, and I desperately hope that means he's taken shelter in the building, which I assume is a public bathroom. I put aside the idea of climbing the fence and begin walking beside it, looking for a gate or something.

I find one not too far away; it swings open easily, but I nearly fall flat on my face in the dirt on my way in; the rain has made it into slippery mud. My wet hair is now sticking to my face, so I push it aside and steadily make my way towards the building, cursing Vaughn with a thousand different nasty names in my head.

I'm wet and cold and tired and utterly miserable – I really don't want to add abandonment to my long list of things to complain about. I duck into the women's restroom first, but it's empty, so I make my way to the other end, praying to find him inside the men's. I push open the heavy door and let it swing closed behind me.

It's very dark in this bathroom; I run my hand along the wall for a light switch. When I find it, the light that comes on is far too bright compared to the gloomy, rainy night I just emerged from. I blink away the strange shapes that dance across my vision as I wait for my eyes to adjust.

Vaughn is sitting directly across from the handicapped stall in the corner with his arms on his knees. He's peering up at me with his peculiar eyes, like _I'm _the one who just dashed across town like a possessed person.

I exhale, totally spend, and sit down beside him, sliding my pack under the door into the stall so it's out of my way; he has done the same. For a moment, we sit in silence, listening to the rain, the same way we did last night.

I just want to curl up and sleep, but I want to talk more. "It was hard to keep up with you, you know," I say, no trace of irritation in my voice, just polite observation, as if I were commenting on the streak of bad weather lately.

"I almost didn't."

"Sorry," he says, and he, too, sounds polite. But when his eyes flicker over to me for a split second, I see the genuine remorse there.

"I would have found you." I stare at him dubiously.

"I doubt it. This place is too damn big to find anyone without a phone."

He shrugs, and sighs into his hands. He doesn't seem to have a trace of the angry resolve he usually carries with him, just obvious despair. It breaks my heart a little. But I really am mad at him for what he did.

"I'm sorry," he says again, "It just . . . brought up some bad memories."

"I have my fair share of those, and then some," I grumble, "but they haven't made me suddenly race across the town like an Olympic runner."

"If we do get lost around here," Vaughn says, ignoring my comment, "We can meet back up at the transit center."

"Already planning another mad dash, then?" I ask sarcastically.

"No."

My stomach growls loudly just then, so I yank my bag onto my lap and pull out two candy bars and hand him one. "The transit center, then. Got it."

Let's hope the both of us could make it back there. He takes my offering, immediately ripping away the paper and biting into it. A long silence passes as we eat. When we're through, he trades my pack for his own and gives me a packet of dried fruit.

Not exactly my favorite food, I but I guess I could certainly use the nutrients. For dessert we have my canned peaches, though we have to be careful getting them out of the can each time we want one. Cans have notoriously sharp edges.

Next time, I'm stealing a fork or two. Assuming I can get away with it next time. Maybe I'm losing my touch.

"What were you doing in that alley, anyway?" Vaughn asks, after successfully tossing the can into the tiny wastebasket by the sink.

He then turns and studies me seriously. His gaze makes me nervous, so I look towards the window, which is slightly ajar to let in some air. The scent of rain is much better than the one of public restrooms.

I sigh, reluctant to speak of my failed attempts at stealing winter gear. But I recount the story for him anyway, not seeing the point of keeping it hidden.

"We need coats and gloves and stuff," I say at the end, "But, um, maybe from bigger stores where it's easier to remain inconspicuous."

He rolls his eyes. "Yeah, the funny thing about being the only customer is that you get all the attention."

"It was stupid," I agree, "Major ego deflator."

"Guess you're just not a pro like me," he teases.

I half-smile at him, surprised by his light tone after what appeared to be an extreme angst fest a minute ago.

"Guess not," I allow, "But, unfortunately, I'm getting better."

He sobers up immediately, and hesitantly reaches out to touch my hand. "We won't always have to live like this, you know."

Amazed, I watch as he grips my index finger. "I – I know," I say, aware of how close we are, just like last night. "We've only been doing this for two days, but it seems like a lifetime."

He blinks. "Two days? Is that all?"

I nod.

"Huh."

He leans back, letting go of my hand, and I miss his touch instantly. A breeze blows through the window, and I shiver. The smell of the rain is nice, but it also makes the wind icy. And there's no crinkly tarp to use now.

Somehow, I don't think cuddling with a toilet is going to bring me much warmth. He notices my shiver, and holds his arms open in invitation. I scoot closer to him, and he pulls me onto his lap in the same position as before.

I cling to him tightly, savoring his warmth, his body against mine.

"Thank you for today," I say quietly, "That guy . . . well, it was pretty obvious what he wanted."

"Sick bastard," he says, a growl in his voice.

"Yeah, he was. I'm sorry it . . . got to you, afterwards."

I feel him shrug, and then his nose buries into my hair. I'm frozen at this point, my heart going crazy in my chest. Somehow, this feels even more intimate than the night before.

"It's not your fault," he whispers, "It just reminded me of home."

I pause for a moment, and then gently prod, "Violence around there common?"

He hesitates, and I wonder what he'll answer. Maybe if he told me some of the things that ate at him, I could help . . . and maybe . . . maybe he could help me, too. But then, I may just be caught up in the heat of the moment. In the morning, this conversation will probably feel like a dream.

"It's nothing new," he finally says, "Just a twisted, violent stepfather."

"Why didn't you leave sooner?"

"Because of my mother. I needed to protect her from him. I still want to, but I can't do it anymore." He sounds so pained, and it's easy to understand that he really loves his mother.

"Why not?" I ask.

"Because she won't let me. Says he takes care of us, that he deserves our respect, and is basically entitled to treat us like shit if he wants to." His grip on m tightens; he hugs me so close to him that we're beginning to feel like one person.

His voice is thick with emotion. "He's kicked the crap out of both of us for as long as I can remember. But he started leaving me alone as I got older, because I started to fight back. He didn't like it. Much preferred me as a defenseless kid, I guess. But he could do whatever he wanted to my mom, and she let him. Because she loves him."

Disgust drips from his tone.

"It was like that in one of my foster homes," I say quietly, "I didn't stay there for long."

"Good. Drives a person nuts."

I look up, forcing his face out of my hair and his eyes to look at mine. There are inches between our faces. I raise my right hand, and realize that my fingers are trembling slightly. I place it gently on his cheek; it's scratchy with stubble he'll need a razor to take off.

"What about tonight reminded you of then?" I whisper.

"He went too far one night. Pushed her down a flight of stairs. She broke two of her ribs. I nearly killed him that night for it. Put him in the hospital with her. It was the worst fight between us since we'd been there. My mom was furious with me for hurting him, and he reported me to the police. Spent a while in juvie after that. It sure was fun."

I can feel his breath on my face as he speaks. It's difficult to listen to exactly what he says with my thoughts so scattered, but I make myself listen.

"Oh," I say finally, "I see."

I wonder how badly he hurt his stepfather the night he went to the hospital. By the serious glint in Vaughn's eyes, I didn't doubt him when he said his stepfather was seriously injured.

"But you don't need to listen to this," he says, his forehead against mine, "I'm sure you have your own skeletons to deal with. Never been in it myself, but I don't hear good things about the foster care system."

"It isn't exactly a vacation," I say bitterly.

"How many have you had?" he asks.

I'm reluctant – very, very reluctant – in some ways, to open up to another human being willingly for the first time in my life, because I want to, not because I'm being forced to visit some shrink who asks me about my feelings.

I'm sure Vaughn feels the very same way, and I know he hasn't told me everything, but he's still told me something, so I feel the need to reciprocate. Besides . . . I really do want to. Although I still can't say I know him very well, although he still is an asshole fifty percent of the time . . . I want to.

"Five," I say, "in my lifetime. Some of them actually where pretty bearable, but I screwed myself out of some happy times often enough."

"How did your parents die?"

"Car accident when I was little. The Crazies have always been the worst." Well, that wasn't the whole truth, maybe. In my second one, the father figure had been a real creeper and I was reasonably sure that if I'd stayed there any longer, he would have sexually assaulted me.

"They won't win Neighbor Of the Year any time soon, either. Jeff was always putting stuff in our garbage can. Drove Harold crazy."

"Is Harold your stepfather's name?" I ask.

"Yeah."

"Well, it was always weird to hear people call them Jeff and Mona. To me, they were always the Crazies."

"Did they hurt you?" he wonders.

I know, _know, _that I am imagining the possessive note in his voice.

"Not very often, not physically. Metal and emotional issues were their domain. I'm probably more jacked in the head than the whole school combined."

"Not more than me," he argues.

I laugh. "Maybe we can have a Who's Crazier contest sometime."

"I'll keep it in mind," he promises.

Another silence. I know that the both of us have said all we're willing to say in one evening. I know that I may eventually tell me more, and vise versa, but the floodgates can't all open at once. We've already told each other so much more than either of us anticipated.

For a moment, all we can do is look at each other, as if amazed that we discussed our issues with another person. My hand is still on his cheek. In a moment of courage, I lean forward slowly, cautiously, and kiss him ever so lightly on the lips.

They are warm and soft, welcoming. But it's only a peck, because we are not ready for more. He smiles at me, his eyes softer than I've ever seen them before.

"I guess we'll sleep here tonight, and head out of this city tomorrow."

"Pretty much nothing but vacant farmland for a while after this," I say.

"Yes."

And then, with nothing more to say, we fall asleep to the soft sound of rain.

**OoOoOoO**

I'm stiff when I wake the next morning, with crust in my eyes. Yawning, I wipe it away. Vaughn's already up, standing by the sink in front of the mirror, yanking a comb through his hair. I watch him silently for a minute; he is so quiet.

"Morning," I say quietly, a little unsure how to behave after our emotional talk last night.

I still remember the feeling of his mouth on mine for that brief second with stunning clarity, and I wonder if we'll kiss again. He stuffs the comb in his pack and looks at me.

"Morning," he repeats.

There's a lightness in his voice I haven't ever really heard before, and it encourages me to not be so shy. I reach for my pack and take out the lone apple I took from the store yesterday. My pocketknife is not the greatest at slicing, but it gets the job done. I hand half of it to him, and we eat breakfast silently.

It is then that I have the sudden urge to relieve myself. "Is it early? I want to get out of here before any little kids and their parents show up," I say.

"I think it's seven, but I'm not sure," he answers easily, zipping up his pack and slipping it over his shoulders.

His hair is combed, the shadows are mostly gone from under his eyes, and he looks a little happy. If it weren't for his tattered clothes, he would look totally healthy. I know I've got to put on a little weight before I start looking that way.

"I've got to use the bathroom, and then we'll go," I say.

He nods, but continues to stand there. I give him a pointed look.

"Uh, could you wait outside?"

"Oh. Sure." His cheeks redden, and he is almost teddy bear cute when he blushes. He steps out, and I make use of the toilets we slept next to last night.

Spending the night in a bathroom as its advantages, after all. I peek out the window and see that, at last, the sun has decided to show it's face. Maybe it's a sign of better days to come. I don't get my hopes up, though. While I am, ahem, doing my business, however, I notice a little problem of mine that needs to be taken care of _now. _

I curse loudly to myself, knowing I am an idiot to not have brought feminine supplies. I yank my pack up off the floor and race outside. Vaughn is standing by the water fountain, shifting his weight from foot to foot, clearly eager to leave.

"We have to find another store," I say quickly, "or go back to the one from yesterday."

He raises one silver eyebrow, surprised by my urgent tone. "What do we need so badly that we can't wait for?" This makes me hesitate. While I really don't want to discuss with him my need for girl stuff, I don't seem to have another option. My cheeks turn blood red, and I stare down at my tennis shoes with my fists clenched at my sides.

"Ineedfemininethings," I say, the words strung together and said so fast I don't know if it was coherent.

Apparently, it wasn't, because he says, "What?"

I force myself to look at him. "Stuff. I need girl stuff."

Understanding dawns in his eyes, and he winces, like I've just told him I want to go find a drug dealer and get stoned out of my mind.

"O-oh . . . okay." He looks away, and for a moment we just stand there awkwardly.

"Let's go back to the one from yesterday. I think I remember the way," he says finally, refusing to meet my eyes.

"Hurry," I mutter, and we run from the playground.

**OoOoOoO**

It seems to take a long time to get there, but when we do, I leave him by the registers, go find a package of my things, and make use of them in the bathroom. Then I stuff the whole thing in my backpack, still cursing myself out for being a moron.

I did feel more comfortable with Vaughn last night than I ever had before, but I wasn't quite so comfortable that I wanted to openly discuss my period with him. I didn't think I ever would be, and that was just fine by me. I went back to the registers and muttered that I was ready to go.

"So . . . bus stop?" he asks quietly.

"Yeah."

We walk side by side, silently. Eventually, I say, "Can we just pretend that whole thing never happened? It would make me feel so much better. I'm embarrassed enough as it is."

"It's not your fault," he replies, "and trust me, I was more embarrassed than you. But yeah, it never happened."

"Thanks."

I want to reach for his hand again, but somehow it feels different now than the other times we've done it. Before, it was mostly a comforting gesture, but now, it could mean more. A romantic gesture. But I'm the one who kissed him last night, and it took a lot of courage to do that.

I don't want to be the one who makes all the advances. So I don't. After a while, I look behind us and notice a dog. It's medium sized and probably a mutt. Its fur looks white in places, but it's hard to tell if it's his solid color because dirt and grime mar it so much. It doesn't look vicious or rabid, just a bit wary.

It's following us. I elbow Vaughn in the ribs and gesture behind us. "We've got a shadow."

Vaughn whirls around, probably expecting another creepo like yesterday, but he relaxes when he sees the dog. In a soft voice, he coaxes it over to us and gently pets its head. The dog sits down on the sidewalk and lets itself be pet, its tongue hanging out the side of its mouth.

"I didn't know you were so good with animals," I say.

"I like animals more than people," he says.

I contemplate this for a minute. "You'd probably be better suited for the job at the Islands, then," I sigh.

Even though I really want it, I can't deny that I have no experience with ranching, or any animals at all, really. None of my foster families had pets.

He shrugs, unconcerned. "Maybe. I don't know a damn thing about gardening, though."

"I do," I say, thinking of the little vegetable garden I had with my third family. They were one of the kinder ones.

Vaughn stands back up, and so does the dog.

"I'd like to take him with us, but we don't need another mouth to feed," he tells me.

"I know, but . . ." I reach down at pat its head. "I still want to."

He shrugs. "Well, he can follow along if he wants to, I guess."

And then we continue on. The dog walks beside now instead of behind, now that the proper introductions have been made. We get more funny looks from people, though. Apparently, two tattered teenagers with backpacks isn't as strange as two tattered teenagers with packs and a dirty dog.

We're still in the seedier part of the city, so eventually we end up walking in a shady neighborhood with more than a couple abandoned houses. Some of their windows are boarded up or broken, and a lot of wood is rotting away.

Paint is peeling, lawns are scarily overgrown, and some of them smell odd. Still, I can detect movement inside a few of them. Homeless, probably. Even in broad daylight, these houses look creepy. Haunted, even.

The one at the end of the block – a good sized two story – looks worst of all. The grass has to be waist high, bits of wood and plaster are scattered everywhere, and the porch looks incapable of holding even a tiny person.

As we pass by though, a face suddenly appears in the window, a nose smashed against the glass that creates a somewhat eerie fog. I swallow a lump in my throat. I've never believed in ghosts, but if I did, this is where their hangouts would be.

But the face – a boy, I realize – smiles at us, and gestures for us to stop. We do, but we give each other looks, wondering if this is the correct thing to do.

"We should probably keep going," I say, thinking of the last time we met up with a suspicious person.

But by the time I've completed my sentence, the boy races around the side of the house – through the back door up from the cellar, maybe, and screeches to a halt not five feet from us.

"You found Patches!" he crows, his arms opening wide.

The dog – Patches, apparently – runs to its master and covers his face with wet doggie kisses. The boy laughs. That's exactly what he is, too – a boy. He can't be any older than Vaughn, probably a few years younger. His clothes hang on his stick thin frame, his hair is matted, and there's dirt on his cheek, but his eyes are big and brown and pretty, and his teeth are surprisingly white.

When the dog ceases its hellos and totters back to the house, the boy smiles widely at us like we are old friends.

"Hi, I'm Timmy," he says, "Where'd you find my dog?"

"He found us, actually," I say. My tone is friendly, but Vaughn eyes the boy like he's hiding a machete in his sneaker. I shoot him a glance that says to be nice, and then I add, "My name is Chelsea, and this is my friend, Vaughn."

"Huh. Nice to meet ya. Hey, I'd like to thank you guys for finding Patches, so why don't you come inside and meet my friends?"

I blink, and Vaughn and I share a look. I don't really think he wants to, and the idea of going into a stranger's house doesn't seem like the brightest idea, even if it is a kid that looks fourteen or fifteen. But the way he's beaming at us is so bright, so genuinely honest, that I can't bring myself to deny him.

"Okay," I say, "But just for a few minutes."

Vaughn exhales sharply, and then says, "I don't think so."

Timmy's face falls. "Oh. Okay, then. See you around."

He gives us a little wave, turns, and beings to walk the way the dog went.

"It'll just take a second," I say when Timmy's out of earshot.

"Chelsea, he could be a mass murderer."

"He's just a kid."

"So?"

"I just want to see what he wants to give us. Anything helps, right? We need all we can get to make it to the Islands," I say persuasively, "and if I'm wrong and he jumps on us with a knife when we get inside, you can make a break for it while he hacks me into little pieces and stuffs me in the freezer."

I mean the last part to be humorous, but Vaughn just glares at my with his piercing eyes.

"Nothing's going to happen to you," he says firmly.

I would be lying if I said I didn't enjoy the protective note in his voice. It makes me think that maybe he's grown a bit fond of me, as I have of him.

"Alright, but I'll go first," he tells me after a minute. I nod, and then we follow Timmy.

To the house that looks like it could have come straight from a horror film.


	11. Refuge

9: Refuge

_**Better a thousand times careful than once dead. ~ Proverb**_

Timmy leads us to the back of the house. He doesn't seem to have issues with the fact that he's just invited two total strangers into the place where he apparently lives with his dog. Just as we can't be sure he isn't a creepy stalker, he has no idea who we might be.

I can't help but wonder if he's on something. I hope not; he's so young. My traveling complain flashes me a dirty look to emphasize what a bad idea he thinks this is, but I ignore him. We step over branches and bits of dirty plastic that litter the back, and a revolting smell lingers in the air the makes all of us, Timmy included, hold our noses.

I want to open my mouth to ask about it, but frankly, I don't want to know and we're at the back door anyway. Timmy pulls away three of the boards towards the bottom, and we duck into the house.

Vaughn lets me go in first, but he comes in so fast behind me that when we stand my back is against his chest. His arm wraps around my ribs as he eyes the our surrounding with suspicion. Timmy slithers in behind us with ease, apparently leaving Patches outside to play. I wonder if he'll run away again.

The house is very dark, but not completely barren. The kitchen, the room we've ended up in, is completely destroyed; there is no stove, the door hangs off what used to be a refrigerator and there's something green growing in one of the corners.

But the dining room has a card table set up with a couple of beat up lawn chairs beside it. Little plastic cups have rolled beneath them. Timmy gestures for us to follow him as he scampers away.

Vaughn and I slowly move through the rooms, treading softly, like stepping on the wrong tile will spring a booby trap. The wallpaper is peeling on the walls of the small living room, and one of the windows is no longer boarded up; just broken, with jagged glass sticking from the pane at awkward angles.

It is the only thing that allows light in; a cold breeze hits me, and I shiver. Vaughn clutches my hand tightly as I notice the ripped up sofa with stuffing spilling out of it all over the dirty carpet. Of course, the furniture is not nearly as interesting as the people sitting on it.

A girl, probably a couple years older than me, is playing cards with a guy, who is also pretty young. They look up as we enter.

Timmy smiles and says, "Gemma, Jax, these are Chelsea and Vaughn."

Timmy's friends seem a bit less enthusiastic to see us that he does. They both give us identical scowls.

"Where the hell did they come from?" Jax, a guy with dirty brown hair that falls to his shoulders and bloodshot blue eyes, barks at Timmy.

"They found my dog, Patches, Jax," Timmy whines, "I just wanted to repay their kindness."

Gemma rolls her eyes. "Go dig up one of the dog's bones for 'em and send 'em on their way. We don't need no more people here taking up space in the house."

"I'm not sharing food with two teenage bastards because they found your stupid dog, Tommy," Jax says. He hands Gemma one of his cards and then proceeds to ignore us.

"Timmy," Timmy corrects.

"Whatever."

Timmy turns to us with big, brown, sad eyes. "I guess Jax says you have to go."

He sounds like a kicked puppy. I nod, knowing that we've overstayed our welcome, and Vaughn pulls me to the doorway, muttering about what a stupid idea this was.

"Wait," says a voice so close to my face I shriek and jump away.

The atmosphere in here is making me jumpy as hell. A second boy slips past us from the kitchen doorway, quick as a mouse. His blonde hair is so blonde it's almost white, and he's so freaking thin it's scary. Thinner than me, and I thought _I _was a stick.

"Maybe they've got some stuff they can trade," the guy says to Jax, who appears to be the leader of this weird little group.

Jax exhales in aggravation and puts down the cards. Gemma flashes us a dirty look and does the same.

The weird guy glances at Timmy. "Hey, Tim, let's go out scavenging."

Timmy's face lights up and him and Stick Guy exit the way we came. Jax rolls his eyes, and then speaks to us.

"Fine." He gives us a look, a suspicious yet interested look, guarded in a way you can only have after living on the streets for a long time. "We've got food and shit. You got anything?"

"A few things," I say, "but I'm not sure what we'd be willing to give up. Do you have any winter clothes? It's getting cold, and we need coats and stuff to make it to where we're going."

"We've got some stuff like that," Gemma speaks up, "But we need to stay alive during the winter, too, you know."

I nod. "Why don't you show me some of your stuff and we'll show you some of ours? Then we can negotiate."

Vaughn has been silent throughout this whole exchange, but he hasn't objected either, so maybe he doesn't disagree. It's hard to tell, though, because when I look at him, his expression is one hundred percent neutral, like we're talking about trading muffins for pudding during lunch instead of something we have for warmth to stay alive.

I zip open my backpack and give them a glimpse of my food, my toiletries, water and clothes. Vaughn hesitates at their hungry, piercing stares, but eventually he follows my lead.

"You're boyfriend talk at all?" Gemma asks, shooting him an appraising look, like he's a horse she's contemplating buying.

"He isn't my boyfriend," I say automatically. Sure, we kissed once yesterday, but we were both upset at the time, and I have no idea if it meant a damn thing to him.

"I talk just fine," he snaps at them.

Gemma shrugs and goes back to looking through our things. "Is he your pimp, then?" she asks lazily, as if asking if it looks like it'll rain soon.

Her hair dyed an unnatural shade of red, and her eyes are heavily made up. I can't help but wonder why the hell she would bother with makeup, until I notice her fishnet stockings, tight black skirt, and low-cut top. It doesn't take a genius to figure out what she does out on the streets to stay alive.

Normally a comment like this would infuriate me, but I'm getting used to the crude way people out here speak, and the fact that this sort of thing is just how life words.

"No," Vaughn and I both say coldly.

Jax points to something in peeking out of the inside pocket in Vaughn's pack. "That work?"

Vaughn scowls. "Yeah, but it's not for sale."

I glance sideways and see that the object Jax was interested in is a shiny iPhone. I didn't know Vaughn brought his phone along – was it to call his parents in case we got desperate? He's obviously deactivated the GPS on it by now, but I imagine his parents have texted and called numerous times.

It wouldn't surprise me to find out that they were also working alongside the Crazies at finding us – they must have noticed how we disappeared at the same time and assumed we ran off together. Jax shrugs and then gestures to the thirty bucks stashed beside the iPhone.

Vaughn shrugs. "Yeah, I might trade that for the right thing."

Gemma apparently doesn't find anything interesting in my pack – the forty dollars I have is stashed in the bottom under my clothes – and moves to Vaughn's. She claps her hands together at the sight of his iPod, which I also didn't know he brought, but maybe he listened to music at night when we weren't traveling and I was asleep.

It would have been nice to bring some things to keep myself amused with me on my crazy journey – if I'd had them.

"What about that? Could I have that?" Gemma asks excitedly, "I haven't heard any decent music in forever."

Vaughn exhales sharply, zips his pack, and throws it back over his shoulders. I do the same, since my pack is apparently boring in comparison to his.

"That depends on what you give us for it," he repeats.

Gemma shoots him a sultry look, glancing up at him through thick black eyelashes. She runs a finger down his chest, and I suddenly have the urge to beat her to death with my backpack.

"How about you give me the iPod," she says – no, _murmurs, _"and I'll let you keep me company in my bed tonight?"

I vomit a little in my mouth, swallowing it back with a wince. The fact that this girl is so used to offering her body to men in exchange for money or whatever else she wants is sickening on its own, but the fact that she's making such an offer to _my_ Vaughn is gut-wrenching.

Wait.

My Vaughn?

When the hell did I start thinking like that?

Jax rolls his eyes and says to Vaughn, "Might be worth it, man. She's damn good at what she does."

I glare at him, but he doesn't seem to notice. Vaughn pushes her hand away and wraps an arm around my waist.

"Thanks, but I'm not interested." His tone is actually cordial, like he's rejecting her offer of a freshly baked cookie.

I stiffen against him, wondering what this show of possessiveness is. Is it real? Gemma eyes Vaughn warily, as if him declining her offer makes him not human, but a snake or something that could strike at any moment. Her eyes narrow into slits.

"You said he wasn't your boyfriend," she says to me, accusation in her voice.

"He . . ." I glance up at him, wondering what he wants me to say.

"We're together," Vaughn snaps at her.

Jax's loud chuckle seems out of place in our tense conversation. "Better clear up that little misunderstanding with your supposed girlfriend."

Butterflies flutter in my stomach at his comment, while at the same time I struggle to come to terms with it. I'm such a mess as a person, mentally, emotionally, so how could I even think of trying to be with someone? I need to get my own life straightened out first. I need to get to the Islands and get some kind of routine, get away from the craziness that has become my life. But . . . says a little voice in the back of my mind . . . I want him.

Yes, I admit it.

Unaware of my inner conflict, Gemma exhales sharply in annoyance. "Calm down, Gemma. Jeez. Not everyone wants whores in their bed. Get over it."

"As if you would know," she shoots back at him.

Jax chuckles again, amused. I shudder. Gemma turns back to us, tossing her hair over her shoulder in irritation.

"Well, I still want the iPod." She turns and scurries down the hall.

"So, what's led you to our humble home?" Jax smirks at us, as if our being homeless is the equivalent of getting a college degree.

"None of your business," Vaughn says.

He doesn't sound mean or even cold, just matter-of-fact. I have to agree with him. I'm not about to spill my guts to some creepy guy I just met ten minutes ago. Gemma reappears in the living room and holds up a scarf, and two mittens that are just a bit shy of being threadbare. They are both a hideous shade of barf green, but I'm certainly not picky.

"Fifteen bucks for these," she says.

She then lays two coats over the couch to show them off and gestures to them like a game show model. Both are black, with surprisingly warm fabric on the insides, and quite a few pockets with zippers. They don't even appear to be old. Not new, but no holes, nothing to suggest that they've been through hell and back.

"I'll trade these two for the iPod," she says.

Then she shows us another mitten-scarf set, red and black with little snowflakes.

"Ten for this," she says, "because the middle finger has a hole. And five apiece for the hats."

She shows us two solidly black winter hats. I blink at all that she has shown us. Our survival may be these clothes. We need them.

I open my mouth to speak, but Jax interrupts, saying, "Don't tell us to lower the price, either. I already think Gamma's letting this stuff go way-ass low, because she's melting over a pair of purple eyes."

I grit my teeth when Gemma shoots Vaughn another flirty look, but manage to restrain myself for the moment.

"It's a deal," I say, "but I want one more thing; to share whatever you're having for dinner tonight, and a room or whatever to spend the night in."

Jax frowns and says, "Don't really like letting people stay here. Sends a bad message to the other people around here. And I'm pretty damn territorial about this house, my friends. This is my turf. Does this look like a bed and breakfast to you?"

"No," I say, "but I'll throw in another ten."

"Fifteen," Jax counters.

"Fine."

"Great. Your total comes to fifty dollars. Thank you for shopping at Jax's Mini Mart."

Vaughn rolls his eyes, but fishes the iPod and thirty bucks from his pack. I get the extra twenty out of mine, and we exchange said merchandise. I put the coat on immediately, because it's cold in here, but I put the mittens, scarf and hat away for later. Vaughn stuffs everything in his pack, and it's amazing he's able to zip it back up when he's done.

"Let me show you to your private suite," Jax says, obviously enjoying his own jokes immensely.

He leads us to some stairs, and I eye them warily as we head up, nervous at the squeaking and creaking. I mean, obviously, this is a freaking old house, but who's to say the entire second story won't collapse under too much strain? Jax seems unconcerned, though, and something tells me he's the sort of person who would be very much concerned about his own life, so I relax a little.

He coughs twice as he pushes open the first door he comes to, as the dust sweeps out all at once. I blink at the full sized blow up mattress lying in the center of the room.

"We get hold of these sometimes," Jax says conversationally, "beats the floor by a long shot."

There's some old magazines and a couple of books lying in the corner next to a bright yellow flashlight. A little red bag, and an unopened bag of Veggie Sticks also greets us. The window to this room, though, is boarded up, so very little light escapes into the room through the cracks.

"Whose room is this?" I ask. Obviously, it's inhabited by someone.

"It's Gemma's," Jax says. "Isn't there an empty extra room we can have?"

"Nope," he replies, "we use those rooms for other things."

Probably growing pot or something, but it's no business of mine, I guess.

"Well, where she sleep, then?" I ask.

"She's not usually around much at night. But if for some reason she is tonight, I'm sure we'll figure something out." A mischievous glint sparks in Jax's eyes, and I once again feel sick to my stomach.

"What's for dinner?" Vaughn asks, letting his bag drop to the floor besides the bed.

"Dunno. Timmy and Tack will probably bring something back. They usually do."

"Tack?" I ask.

"Yep. We call him that cuz he's about as shark as one. Not. Heh." Jax shakes his head and moves out of the bedroom.

"We'll let you know when to come down," he says, "unfortunately, we do not offer room service."

The door shuts behind him. I yawn and go to sit beside Vaughn on the bed. "I think that went well," I say.

"Better than getting jumped and hacked into little pieces by a raving lunatic, like I was anticipating," he says dryly. He lays on his back and stares up at the ceiling. "I've had better company, though, personally."

I laugh and, without thinking about it, lay down beside him. But then I recall his earlier statement, and I freeze up.

"What you said before . . ." I trail off.

"About being together?" he asks.

I nod.

He shrugs. "I thought it was best to say that we were. I figured Jax or Tack or whatever would be less likely to try something with you."

"You think they'd do something like that?"

"Who knows?" He sighs and shakes his head. "The sooner we get out of here, the better."

"We needed somewhere to rest," I say, "and we're lucky about the clothes."

I'm still trying to absorb his words. So he wasn't being serious. He was just trying to protect me, because he is a decent human being. I feel an ache deep inside my heart, and do my best to silence it. But I've already admitted it to myself, and it's not something I can just take back.

If he wanted to be with me, I might not be able to say no because I care for him, I like him, (not nearly ready to go near the L word, thank you very much), regardless of how sensible it may be to decline. But I'm just deluding myself. He'll never want to. He's much more reasonable than I am, and I remember all too well the way he grimaced at my thinness back when we had the car.

I've never really considered a romantic future for myself before, didn't see myself liking someone enough to want that, so now that I have a person I could potentially . . . really like . . . it's hard to let go. I need to, though. I mean, I don't even know him that well. Even though our time together has felt like a lifetime, and we know some deep stuff about each other, we're still strangers on some levels.

"Vaughn," I say impulsively, "What's your last name?"

He glances at me, amusement lighting his lovely eyes.

"Why?" he asks, not one to give up information without giving me his necessary side of asshole-ness with it.

"We've been traveling for a few days now, and I just feel the need to know," I say, "So. Tell me. What is it? Mine's Waters."

"Salas," he says, rolling his eyes. "Anything else you'd like to know? My birthday? Favorite animal? Blood type?"

"Sure," I say, "Mine's May 6th, I'll be seventeen. My favorite animals are dogs, and my blood type is O."

He blinks at me. "Fine, fine. I'll play twenty questions with you. Why the hell not? Been a while since I've encountered someone who actually does."

"I do," I say quietly, "I do care. About you." It's a bold thing to say. But I mean it. He rests his hand on my knee, and I shiver under his touch.

I wish he would do it more often. The thought of him touching Gemma makes me sick. Touching her when he should be touching me. Like I want him to, sometimes, when my mind begins to wander . . .

"Thanks," he says, sincere for once. "My birthday is April 3rd, my favorite animals are horses, and I don't know my blood type."

I absorb this information carefully, storing it away so I don't forget later. When we part ways at the Islands, I want to remember him. I have to keep that in mind, that we will eventually part, and what he said the parking lot recently.

_"You should also keep in mind that, even though I'd prefer to have you with me, ultimately, my main goal is to get there myself." _I sigh quietly to myself.

"Favorite food," I fire off, and we continue on like this for two hours.

I learn quite a bit about him; he likes country music, he likes to read, he hated school, he broke his wrist when he was twelve falling out of a tree. We don't get into any of the deep, angsty crap going on in our lives, we just stick to superficial stuff. And, for once, it's nice. I like the sound of his laugh, cherish every one of his smiles.

"Have you ever kissed anyone? Um, besides me, that one time?" I ask him sometime in the evening.

We're lying side by side on the mattress, and it's just light enough for me to see his face. I'm not sure what possesses me to ask, maybe how comfortable I feel with him at this moment. More comfortable than I've ever felt with him. Like I can really trust him. I only hope he doesn't take my small measure of trust and tear it to shreds, because I do not trust easily.

He stares at me for a moment, and I love feeling his hand on my hip. I want to scoot closer to him, right up against him, to see if our bodies will fit together as easily as I imagine they will.

"Yeah," he says, "Once, in fifth grade. She slobbered all over me. It sucked. End of story."

"Oh," I say.

"I've never really had time to think about stuff like that. Too many of my own issues," he adds.

I nod. "I agree."

"So? You kissed anyone? Besides me?"

"Nope," I say, "Not one."

"Good. None of those idiots, in our school anyway, deserved you." He purses his lips after he says this, as if he wishes he could take it back. I don't share his wishes.

"Thanks," I say quietly. I can feel the tension in the air, so thick I could slice through it with my pocketknife. His mouth is so close to mine, and the memory of our kiss yesterday flashes through my mind, and I am very eager for a repeat.

"Well," he says, "I hope your first kiss was better than mine."

"It was amazing," I whisper, "I . . . I liked it."

If that's not a clear invitation right there, I don't know exactly what is. So when he leans his face down to mine, I lean mine back and kiss him with passion I didn't know I had. My hands are in his hair, and I notice his kiss is a lot less gentle than last time.

Last time, we kissed out of desperation, eager for the comfort of another human being who could understand our stupid situations. But this time, we're desperate in a much different way. All I can think about is this, his hands, his mouth, it feels so good, so right.

His tongue traces my bottom lip, seeking my permission, and when I give it, he deepens our kiss without hesitation. A shot of pleasure goes through me at the way he tastes; I can't help it, a little breathless moan escapes my lips, and he grunts in response.

He rolls so he's hovering over me, supporting his weight on his arms, and I am dizzy with sensation. My hands slide under his shirt, and I trace the muscles in his back. He moans quietly when I kiss down his neck. He shifts his hips, rocking them into my own, and I seriously may combust right now.

But then. Suddenly the door swing open slowly, and a figure comes slinking through the dark. I shriek a little, and Vaughn immediately rolls off me, eyes on the unwelcome intruder. I hear an amused snicker that I recognize as Gemma's.

She slips to the side of her bed and picks up the red bag I noticed earlier. "Sorry, darlings, I just needed my makeup bag for my night on the town. Don't let me interrupt your hot and heavy makeout session. I'll just be leaving. Unless you want me to join you?"

I scowl at her without comment.

She shrugs. "Whatever, I could teach you a thing or two about pleasing a man, Chelsea. You strike me as somewhat inexperienced."

"Get out!" I snap at her, my cheeks insanely red.

Gemma laughs once more before she leaves, shutting the door behind her.

"That was awful," I groan, because I don't know exactly what else to say when something like this has just occurred.

"She's just being a bitch, Chelsea. Let it go." Vaughn sits up beside me, and we stare at each other for a moment.

Our moment of crazed hormones has passed, and I am not questioning my own sanity. Just moments ago, I was telling myself how unwise it would be to get involved, and then later, two second later actually, I'm freaking feeling him on the air mattress. What is _wrong with me? _

"I, uh, I'm not sure what that was," I admit quietly.

He shrugs. "Pretty simple. I want you. You want me. We're teenagers. Natural feelings."

I deflate quickly at that. "Is that what it was to you? A means to an end? Would you have slept with me for kicks?" Pardoning the fact that I actually couldn't at the moment, taking into account my, ahem, feminine situation.

He flinches at my statement. "No, of course I wouldn't. I just got a little carried away. I . . . I like you, Chelsea. I wouldn't have sex with you just because."

He sighs. "I shouldn't have kissed you. I think . . . that being romantic . . . would complicate things between us."

And he's right, of course. Only one of us can get the job on the Islands, and that would seriously be a wedge of resentment in our relationship.

"I . . . I know," I say, "I got carried away, too."

"We shouldn't do it again," he says quietly.

"I know," I mumble.

When Jax yells at us to come down, we all share some apples from a nearby orchard, a package of cold hot dogs Tack stole, and some questionable biscuits from a dumpster behind a Starbucks.

**OoOoOoOoO**

In the morning, I seriously have to pee. So I leave a sleeping Vaughn beside in our room and try to find something to go in. If the accommodations of our pretend bed and breakfast are any indication, I'd bet my soul on the fact that this place doesn't have indoor plumbing.

As I pass a door on the way to the stairs, though, I stop. And then immediately flee down them, wishing I had not just heard the gasps and moans coming from the other side. I guess since Vaughn turned her down, Gemma turned to the other available male in the house. I really don't want to know what kind of jacked up relationship they have, I just need to go.

Timmy is sitting in the middle of the floor in the living room, drawing with some broken crayons on a notebook.

"Morning, Chelsea," he say to me cheerfully, as if I've lived here every day since my life began. I give him one of my rare, genuine smiles.

It's obvious Timmy's got some mental disabilities, but really, he's the nicest person here. So I sit down beside him and help him draw the snowcapped mountains he's been working on. The drawing actually isn't bad, not at all.

Timmy chats with me easily about little things, like how it's still raining outside, that there's a new leak in the roof, that Tack found him a new book when they were out yesterday.

"Where is Tack?" I ask curiously. "He went out about the same time Gemma got home. About three in the morning."

"Do any of you ever sleep?" I wonder.

"Yeah, but a lot of them sleep during the day. Night is their time to move. Jax stayed in last night, which is pretty rare. Usually when he comes home he acts . . . weird. Everybody comes and goes whenever they want to." Timmy shrugs and reaches for the one unbroken brown crayon.

I feel an unexpected surge of pity for these teenagers I barely know, even knowing some of their habits. They should have parents looking after them. But then I realize how ludicrous this thought is. If I want to feel sorry for anybody, it should me myself. I don't know what led them to their current lifestyle, but it's their business, and I need to focus on doing everything I can to make sure I don't end up living like this for the rest of my life.

And even though I have developed some rather inconvenient for Vaughn, I need to ignore them for now and focus on my goal. Gemma stumbles down the stairs just then in a t-shirt that barely covers her butt.

Mascara is smeared across her left cheek, and some kind of weird glitter seems to be floating off her, probably the remnants of some cheesy hair spray. She's also the beginnings of a bruise on her jaw, and I can't help but wonder who gave it to her.

She yawns hugely, goes to the small stash of bottled water they apparently keep behind the ratty couch, take one and attempts to clean up her face with it. Dabbing at her cheek with a napkin, she glances at us and says, "Morning, kiddies."

"Are you okay?" I can't help but ask.

Gemma blinks. "Of course I am. Why wouldn't I be?"

I point to my jaw to indicate her new injury.

She shrugs. "Nothing a little foundation won't cover, girl."

When she's done cleaning off the makeup, she comes to sit by us. "Nice mountain, Timmy," she comments.

He beams, but doesn't reply. Jax comes down the stairs, dragging his feet.

"Morning," he mutters to the three of us. His black t-shirt is stained with something yellow in the back and his pants hang in that annoying way jeans do, giving me an uncomfortable view of Jax's boxers as he passes us.

"I got some things to do," he says, and, upon closer inspection, I see that his hands are trembling slightly.

"Don't get hit by a bus on the way there, Jax," Gemma says, "it's your turn to find dinner tonight."

He rolls his eyes at her. "Gemma, just for today, try not to be a complete bitch, okay? I know who's freaking turn it is."

He stomps into the kitchen, presumably out the back door. I blink at Gemma, wondering how they can treat each other so callously after what they'd just been doing moments before.

**OoOoOoO**

We end up staying with them for another day, because there's a thunderstorm outside and Gemma wanted us to. She's got a few old board games from who-knows-where, but she played Life, Sorry and Monopoly with Vaughn, me and Timmy for hours.

Jax still wasn't back by four in the evening, and when I ask Gemma about it, she promptly replies, "I hope that bastard freezes his ass off in the rain."

When I question her on about her wanting us to say, she says, "I haven't had another girl to hang with in a long time. It gets old, living with three jacked up guys all the time."

She glances at Vaughn. "Although, I have to say, I don't mind the fourth addition much."

"Not gonna happen, Gemma," he reminds her, rolling his eyes, but I don't think he's genuinely annoyed.

"I know. How could I even think that, what with walking in on you and Chelsea practically dry humping last night?" Gemma laughs loudly, obnoxiously, and I can't help but wonder if there's anything she wouldn't say in a normal conversation.

Probably not.

Timmy doesn't even react to the comment – I imagine he's used to Gemma's comments by now. I blush and stare down at my cards – I'm a doctor, I have an $80,000 salary, I own a nice house, I've got a husband, and also, two kids.

The game of Life sure is better than Sucky Real Life. I can't help but glance at Vaughn, and surprisingly he's blushing, too. We've been avoiding any real type of conversation since this morning. I don't like this newfound tension between us, but it's not like we can just pretend last night didn't happen.

But, no matter how much I want it, I made a promise to myself not to pursue romantic attachments. I still admire how the blush makes him look boyish for a split second. At around seven in the evening, after the storm finally stops – the house, surprisingly, is still standing – Jax makes his way back in, and drops a ham on our Monopoly board.

I kid you not, a fully cooked, honey ham that's just oozing with delicious promise. I blink at the meat for a second, as if it will magically disappear before my eyes, but it doesn't.

"Where'd you get this?" Vaughn asks.

Jax smells suspiciously like pot. He murmurs something unintelligible and disappears back upstairs.

"Well. Uh." Gemma shakes her head, brushing her fake red hair out of her eyes. "That was weird. But whatever. He brought home food like he should have, so let's dig in."

She finds us all some plastic forks. It sure is fun to cut thick slices off the hand with a tiny plastic knife. But we all end up with a good sized piece in our hands. I eat it all hungrily, hoping like hell it's not laced with something.

We save a good sized piece for Tack whenever he wants to come out of hiding, and Vaughn and I share what's left of the food from our packs with them. After some water, we conclude that it's been nice and go up to bed.

Gemma follows us into her room and picks up her red makeup bag, just like last night. Just before she leaves, as me and Vaughn are settling in – sleeping as far from each other on the mattress as possible – she pauses in the doorway.

"Do you want to come with me tonight, Chelsea? You're pretty much skin and bones, but if you stick around for a while, I bet I could get you some regulars."

It takes me a second to absorb what she's suggesting, but, apparently, it takes Vaughn half of one.

"She's not going anywhere with you," he snaps at her, "she's never gonna be some tramp off the street like you, Gemma."

Gemma's eyes widen at his statement, as if shocked by someone talking about her profession in such a way. She shrugs, and shuts the door behind her. But I'm pretty sure I see some wetness in her eyes before she does so.

"You didn't have to be so rude," I snap at Vaughn.

True, Gemma is a prostitute, she says whatever she's thinking, and she's not the greatest influence, but I kind of like her.

"Why not, Chelsea? You're too damn good for people to even be saying stuff like that."

"You don't know me well enough to say that," I say, "and I don't know you, either. A couple games of twenty questions doesn't change that. And I'm perfectly capable of standing up for myself, thank you very little."

I turn away from him, ignoring the spark of anger that flashes through his eyes.

"You're right," I hear him mutter in the dark, "Maybe it's time to refocus my priorities."

**OoOoOoO**

We leave the next morning, the tenseness between us even more uncomfortable than it was yesterday. But I'm determined to ignore it. I go to Timmy and say goodbye first, wishing I had something to give him, some way to help him. He asks me to stay twice, but both times I say I have somewhere to be.

"Somewhere better than here?" he asks.

"Yes," I say.

"I hope you get there, Chelsea. You and Vaughn."

"Thanks, Timmy."

Surprisingly, Gemma hugs me before we go, but doesn't say goodbye, because apparently she hates those.

She kisses Vaughn on the cheek before he has time to react tells him, "I forgive you for last night, darling. Those eyes of yours are far too difficult to stay mad at."

Ignoring my irritation with this action, I ask her to be careful, and she laughs and says, "Always, girl" before disappearing out the back door.

Jax isn't around to say goodbye to, but I can't say I'm disappointed. Tack also isn't around, and it's impossible to tell if he's out or if he just doesn't want to come out of his part of the house. We exit the house without a backward glance, and agree to stock up on supplies before we start walking across the eight or so miles of farmland until we reach another town.

It's not really a big deal to sneak into the store of our choosing and go through our usual routine. Even though the incident in the clothing store shook me up a little, I settle back into the whole food-stealing thing with relative ease.

We both have on the coats we got from Gemma, and the hats, which I'm grateful for, because it's chilly out here. Plus, it hides Vaughn's hair, so the color won't be noticeable anymore.

"Are you ready?" I ask him when we're a good distance away from the store we just stole from.

"No. Walking this much sucks," he says.

I snort and say, "Well, at least it's not snowing."

"Doesn't matter. It's still cold."

He's probably going to be an asshole and contradict everything I say today, so I roll me eyes and we start the next phase of our journey. I can't help but remember the last few times we held hands while walking like this.

I want to again, but I can't help but think that would go against the whole ignore-our-feelings policy. While we're waiting at a crosswalk, I turn my head and catch sight of a telephone pole a few feet away.

"Vaughn, look," I sigh.

A poster has been taped on it with both our pictures on it, as Missing Persons. The photo is one I remember; it was taken when Crazy Number One was going through a crazed photography phase and took a picture of anything more interesting than dust.

"They know we're together," he mutters, shaking his head as we cross the street.

_Yes, _I can't help but think, _but not in the way I want to be. _

**A/N: I apologize for being an update fail. **

**Leave a review if you'd like to make me smile.**


	12. Nightmares

_10: Nightmares_

**They**** say life is full of surprises. That our dreams really can come true. Then again, so can our nightmares.**** – **_**Unknown **_

There are way too many cops around this town. I decide this after we encounter the fourth police car on our way to the bus stop. They can't all be looking for us, can they? It's just a coincidence, right? Maybe they're looking for someone else. A murderer, a robber, a rapist, somebody much more worth looking for.

We're just two runaway teens who want to make better lives for ourselves. Is that really so bad? Of course, I know that if we are caught, the cops aren't going to be interested in me blather on about stuff like this.

They think they're doing the right thing by finding me and taking me home. But I won't let them. Vaughn won't let them. At least, he won't let himself be caught. I don't want to think otherwise, but a tiny voice in my head whispers that maybe, just maybe, he would be more intent on helping me out in a sticky situation after our intimate moments.

But isn't that a very foolish thought?

As if a few kisses here and there really mean anything of that depth. It's just like he pointed out before. We're attracted to each other. Naturally, we might cave once in a while and act on those urges. Still, that doesn't mean one person is ready to risk death for the other.

Not death in the sense of actually dying, but dying as in having our dreams stomped to bits and forced to accept the consequences of leaving once we return to our previous guardians. I sigh and shake my head and my own thoughts, wishing I could ignore my emotions and put on the stone mask I always wore at school and with the Crazies.

But Vaughn has this way of making me feel things that I don't normally feel, he brings out . . . _life _in me. As if I was dead inside before, and still am to an extent, but being with him, it's easier to not feel like a drone that goes through the motions of life without purpose or meaning.

I still can't even figure out why. Half the time, we annoy the piss out of each other. And yet we have moments where I feel like we're connected on a deep, emotional level that no one else could understand.

Our whole relationship feels very unstable, and it's making me jittery in not knowing what to do about it.

"I don't know about this," Vaughn says suddenly, pulling me from my reverie.

He peers up at a cop hanging around the transit center from beneath his winter hat. Now, more than ever, I'm glad it covers his silvery hair.

"I think that we're covered enough to be unrecognizable as long as we don't look at him," I say quietly as a swarm of people pass us.

I'm extremely glad for our new clothes, because the chill in the air seems to have gotten even worse during our time at Jax's. The cop doesn't really seem to have a particular purpose here, but there has to be some reason. He's short, balding and his cheeks are cherry red from the cold.

In this moment, it's hard to believe that someone like him could potentially ruin everything we've worked so hard to accomplish.

"Just act normal," I say, trying to calm him with my best soothing voice, "We can pass him. We'll be okay."

Vaughn bites his lip, his eyes darting around nervously, but eventually he nods once and takes my gloved hand in his. We don't look at the cop as we pass, making our way towards the bus like an average couple on their way to somewhere important. When we get on the bus, Vaughn exhales a sigh of relief and squeezes my hand.

I slide my pack off my shoulder for the fee – our exchanges with Jax and his gang and our occasional legal purchase at a grocery store has left us with about twenty bucks. It's a scarily low amount, but it's all we have to go on.

However, as I search through the pack, I feel the blood drain from my cheeks. I want to dump the contents on the floor of the bus and search, but I know such an action would be futile, so I just grit my teeth and search harder.

"What?" Vaughn's voice is urgent, his gaze harsh.

"I can't find the twenty," I mutter at him.

"Hey, hurry up!" someone shouts.

Vaughn whips around and glares at whoever spoke, glowering and threatening murder with his eyes as I continue frantically searching.

"You're holding up the line," says the bus driver, sounding more bored than annoyed.

She picks at a scab on her wrist and doesn't make eye contact with me. Tears burn in my eyes as I zip the pack back up, but I fight them back, take Vaughn's arm, and begin to tug him off the vehicle. He resists for a split second, but then lets me drag him around the people behind us; they mostly give us dirty looks, but some of them drop when they see the panic in my face.

The cop eyes us as we make our way off the bus, probably expecting trouble, but we continue to avert our faces and shuffle quickly away. I can feel the cop's piercing gaze boring a hole in the back of my head but, thankfully, he doesn't stop us from slipping away from the transit center.

**OoOoOoOoO**

By the time Vaughn and I stop in the parking lot of a cheap movie theater a couple buildings away from the center, he is fuming.

"Why didn't you pay the fee?" he snaps at me, his tone as sharp as if I had just announced that I was shipping him back to his parents myself.

I bristle at his hostility immediately. I can't help it.

"Because the money's gone, Vaughn. I'm sure Tack or Jax took it sometime while we slept."

He blinks at me once, slowly, and for a moment, genuine fear shoots through me at his expression. Not fear for myself, not really, I don't think he would ever physically hurt me. But fear of what sort of thing he'll do to himself, what he'll say to hurt me, when he's as angry as he is now.

"It was in your fucking backpack!" he explodes, turning and slamming his fist into a red Toyota's window.

It cracks under the blow, and it had to have hurt his hand, but he doesn't even seem to notice the pain.

"You lost it," he spits at me, and then stomps off like he has somewhere to go.

I feel the slam of pain in my heart, but at the same time I am oddly calculating about it, because I expected his words before he even said them. I roll my eyes at him, as if there isn't a lump in my throat, as if I just blow it off when inside, I'm hurting.

It wasn't my fault, and he knows it. Even if they did take more from us than we negotiated, even though they stole, it was still worth getting the clothes we needed to survive. I hoped it was Jax or Tack that took our money. In the two days that we'd been there, I'd forged a slight bond with Gemma and Timmy.

Vaughn had made it to the other side of the parking lot by now and, even though I had that slight scared pang in my chest that suggested he'd leave, I didn't chase him the way I had before. If he wanted to go, then he should go. If he did, he wasn't worth my time. It would hurt, but I'd get over it. Over him.

I have to believe that.

I turn and walk into the two dollar movie theatre, chuckling to myself over the fact that I couldn't even afford to see a movie here. Better to laugh at it than cry, I guess. I slip inside, past the ticket sellers outside the doors.

It's all too easy to slip into a showing without anyone seeing, with the concession people selling their customers popcorn and candy at the counter. I don't really pay attention to what I slip into; I just want two minutes of entertainment to take me away from my reality, to slip into someone else's story and think about their problems for once.

I'd rather have a book, but a movie is the next best thing. I end up watching _The Lorax, _and even though it's not usually my thing, I guess it's kind of cute. I take a seat in the rows closest to the door, so I can easily slip out if the need be.

I'm just getting to the park where the Lorax actually shows up in the movie when someone sits down next to me. I swear, even in the darkness of the theatre, I can see his amethyst eyes practically glow. They are so stunning.

"There's six showings going on now," he says quietly, leaning forward to whisper in his ear.

I sort of hate the way my body responds to him, the way his breath on my skin and his voice made me shiver a little in delight.

"And I finally found you in the fifth one. In a Dr. Seuss movie, of all things."

"I needed a little humor," I whisper back.

He nods, and tries to take my hand, but I pull it pack.

"Chelsea, I" – he begins, but I hold up a finger to silence him and point to the movie.

I actually do want to finish it. I mean, who knows when I'll get to enjoy something mundane like this again? Vaughn sighs, not angrily, maybe regretfully, but settles into his seat to watch the show with me. I won't lie and I say I wasn't extremely aware of his presence, and I marvel at how affected I am by just being near him when a few nights ago we were making out on an air mattress.

I blush in the dark at the thought, and I'm glad he can't see. He attempts to take my hand again sometime later, but I still refuse his touch. No matter how much my body wants him, my mind is stronger and is still hurt by his words in the parking lot.

When it's over and the credits begin to roll, we're the first ones out. Back outside, he mumbles for me to follow him, and I do. I notice some kind of bandage over the knuckles of his hand, the one he used to punch the car. He leans against a blue Ford truck and stares at me with hard eyes.

"I'm sorry," he says quietly, "I . . . I didn't mean what I said. I just . . ."

His voice cracks, and for just a moment, he looks like a scared, lost little boy.

"I know you didn't," I say, "but it still hurt my feelings. And I . . . I never know where you're going when you stomp off like that. I don't know if you're going to leave me."

I can't conceal the pain in my voice, no matter how much I'd like to. I've told him too much, trusted him with too much now, to start being robotic and emotionless now.

"I told you before; I won't abandon you," he says, "I promise."

He sounds so sincere. He's staring at me so intensely, with those eyes capable of melting my insides. I want to believe him so badly, but I can't bring myself to do so completely, not even after all we've been through so far.

"Okay," I say anyway, "but it's hard to remember than when you curse at me and then storm off like you aren't coming back."

He closes the distance between us before I have time to blink, pulls me against his body, and this time I don't fight him.

He takes my face between his gloved hands and says, "I. Will. Not. Leave. You."

He speaks each word as a sentence, as if trying to sear them into my very soul. I search his gaze for even a glimmer of doubt, but I find none.

"Okay," I say again.

I want to reach up, stroke his face, kiss him hard, knowing the stubble growing on his cheeks and chin will be rough, but also knowing I will love the feeling. But he drops my face and moves away from me, apparently much better at honoring the agreement we made at Jax's house than I am.

"I want to go back and beat the shit out of Jax," he grumbles.

"I know," I say, "I want to, too, but you know that would just waste time and energy. There's four of them and two of us, and Jax and Tack didn't strike me as the type of guys to take part in good, clean fights."

"I know," he says, "This just _sucks._"

"We could steal some money from someone," I say, "for the fee. But . . . I don't know. Maybe we should just walk to the next city. There's, like, ten miles of farmland that separates the two. We already know that there are police around the transit center here, maybe looking for us, and I don't want to wander around forever looking or the right opportunity to steal."

"Long walk," he says.

"I know."

We're silent for a moment, absorbing this new turn in our journey. "Well. We better get started."

And we do.

**OoOoOoOoO**

We stop at a soup kitchen along the way for a free meal, so that's definitely a plus. After that, we start making our way out the city, following the road. We hike for such a long time my feet feel like they're about to explode, and the tip of my nose is numb from the wind's bite, even though there's no snow on the ground.

Vaughn's got to be in the same sort of predicament as me, but neither of us complains. All around us is nothing but farmland, none of which currently bears anything to eat because of the season.

The road stretches out ahead of us, one long, winding ribbon of concrete that doesn't seem to have an end. I rub my hands together to keep warm, and eventually, I stumble. It's about five in the evening, and it hasn't started getting dark yet or anything, but I know that I've reached my limit for the day.

Vaughn catches me before I tumble off the road, and I tell him breathlessly, "I can't go anymore. I'm sorry."

"It's fine," he says quietly, "Let's find somewhere to rest. I'd carry you, but I don't think I can."

His lips brush my forehead, and he allows me to lean on him for a few moment, so spent. Physically, I know he's stronger than me, but I can hear the tiredness in his voice, see the strain of him supporting my weight. I force myself to stand on my own and cough.

"It sure would be awesome to find a place with a roof," I say.

"You never know," he replies.

We actually do have to keep on going for a while, and then. In the distance, I make out a building. We've passed some barns, houses, stables, coops, windmills, and other things like that out here, but the one I spy seems in much worse shape than the buildings before it.

I gesture to it and say, "I think that's our ticket."

He studies my find then nods once. "Worth a shot."

We start working towards our goal, stumbling through the tall grasses. When we finally make it there, we are rewarded with a pretty good sized shack that probably used to be a barn. There's a lock still on the door, but it's rusted through, and slides off pretty easily.

We pull the doors open and slip inside into the dark, leaving them standing wide open so we can see. I'm right about it being a barn, because animal stalls stand besides us on both sides. They are a faded shade of red, and old bits of rope and other odd things litter the floor at regular intervals.

I sit down on the ground and pull a shoe off my feet, grateful that the shelter blocks the wind. I start to rub my foot, wincing at the angry red blisters on my heel. Vaughn plops down beside me, coughs into his hands, and rubs his eyes.

"We have something," I say, my voice coming out as a whisper.

A tear I didn't even know was forming has trickled from the corner of my eye. He sighs, and wipes it with his thumb. And then, surprisingly, he takes my foot from my fingers and begins to rub it. His hands are so gentle, so careful, that the tears continue to fall, and I cannot stop them.

Vaughn works in silence, looking down at my feet, finishing with one and moving onto the other. When he's through with both, I put my shoes and socks back on.

"Let me have yours," I say, pointing to his feet.

He shakes his head. "I'm fine." But I know he's not. He's hurting just as much as I am, if not more so. I see him try to flex the fingers of his injured hand and wince. He's just too damn proud to admit it. If someone shot him in the chest, I think he would just keep walking along, saying he was okay.

I scoot closer to him, and the look he shoots me is wary for half a second, and then just curious. Slowly, I reach up to his pack, help him slide it off his shoulders. Then his coat. It's not exactly warm in here, but the temperature's not as bad as it was this morning.

Vaughn's just in his black sweatshirt now, still eyeing me. I take a moment just to admire him; take in his sharp, observant, lovely eyes. His strong jaw, his lean body, his full lips. The stubble on his cheeks, the lines under his eyes, and the redness of his cheeks.

His fingers are long, his hands capable. I feel safe with him. Even though I still feel I do not trust him with my whole heart, here, in this moment, I feel safe.

I reach up and begin to rub his shoulders, trying to get him to relax a little. I can practically feel the knots under his skin. Eventually, he leans into me a little, a soft groan escaping his lips.

"Is this okay?" I whisper.

"It feels damn good," he says back.

My heart races and – because I have a dirty mind – I imagine hearing him saying those words in a different context. He meets my gaze just then, and I blush, knowing I have just given away my thoughts. He doesn't comment though, just lets me continue until I am satisfied that he feels somewhat better than before.

We eat slowly, the things we got from the last store, and chuckle as we each have a gummy vitamin, as if it will ease our troubles completely. We drink a lot of water to keep ourselves hydrated, so at least we don't have to worry about that. Darkness falls around eight in the evening, and, miraculously, Vaughn finds a couple of old moth eaten blankets tucked away in the corner of the old barn.

He brings them back to me, and we curl up inside one of the animal stalls, where bits of hay lay here and there. He tucks the blankets around us, and he holds me in his arms tightly, his face pressed into my hair. I want to roll over and kiss him, but I can't summon the strength to even move. Every part of me is exhausted. And soon. I fall asleep.

I wake in the middle of the night. Pure blackness surrounds me, in the middle of a field, the darkness of a barn, with nothing but the stars and the moon. The image of a flashlight shoots through my mind, and I realize I have one in my pack, but first, I sit up to see what woke me.

Vaughn has rolled out of the blankets, and he is thrashing blindly on the floor, kicking and hitting the walls. At first, I think some sort of wild animal is attacking him, but then I see his eyes are shut, and I know he is dreaming.

I first crawl to my pack, rip open the zipper, and manage to find the flashlight in the dark. I leave it on the ground, on, and go to Vaughn. I lay both hands on his chest.

"Vaughn! Vaughn! Wake up, it's just a dream!" I shout at him.

I try to shake him, try to wake him, but before I have the chance to do anything else, he suddenly rolls, and then I'm pinned beneath him. With all his weight on my body, I can barely breathe. Panic begins to set in on me, and I yell at him to wake the fuck _up. _

But this panic is nothing compared to the panic that sets in when I feel his hands around my throat. I thrash beneath him, reaching up to try and pry his fingers off me. They tighten, and I. Can't. Breathe. He's blocking the air in my windpipe. And he's not even awake.

When my prying fails, I claw at his face, kicking out uselessly with my legs, and whimpering when I still can't get air. Desperately, I croak with my last breath of air to wake him up, and punch and slap with all my might. And then.

Suddenly, his grip on me loosens, and the spots that were appearing in my vision clear. I suck in a huge, life-giving breath, and then begin to cough so hard it feels like I'm choking all over again.

Vaughn blinks down at me, now supporting his weight with his hands, as if confused about how we got in this position. And, I can see, he honestly is. As I continue to wheeze, he sits back on his knees.

"Chelsea, what . . . what happened? I" – He reaches out to touch me, but I flinch away from him so violently that he stops.

I point to my throat through my attempts at breathing normally again, and his eyes widen with understanding.

"I – I" – he stares down at his hands, as if they belong to someone else. "What happened?"

I take another few minutes to calm myself, and then I scramble away from him, and curl into a ball in the corner. I tremble all over and I try to absorb what just happened. I sneak a glance at him; he's blinking at me, confused. I can't hold his gaze. I stare down at my fingers, willing them to be still.

"You woke me up," I say, my voice hoarse, "because you were trashing around on the floor. I tried to stop you, but you pinned me to the ground and started choking me. I screamed and slapped and hit you, and finally you woke up. But if I hadn't, you . . . you might have" – I shove as much of my fist as I can into my mouth to bite back a scream.

Vaughn's face has turned slightly green.

"Oh my God," he whispers to himself, "_Oh my God."_

It's his turn to start shaking all over – like me, he moves to his own corner, and holds his head in his hands, repeating the statement over and over again. After a few minutes, I hear his sobs, ripping from his lips in long, broken cries.

His shoulders are shaking with the force of it. Some part of me wishes to comfort him, but I can't let go of what happened and stay where I am. I mutely sit in the corner and listen to his sounds of sadness with a blank mind. He lifts his face from his hands and looks at me, tears glistening his cheeks. The flashlight illuminates his face, and I can see the pain in his eyes.

"I'm sorry, Chelsea," he whispers, "I'm so, so sorry."

And then his head drops to his hands again, but the crying has stopped. He just sits there, as I do. I turn the flashlight off and once again we are both surrounded by blackness. The awful episode took energy from my body that I didn't have, so sleepiness crept up on me again, and I was powerless to fight it.

**OoOoOoOoO**

I can't travel the next morning. I don't have the energy. Vaughn is still sitting in his corner when I wake, just staring at the wall, and I wonder if he slept at all since his nightmare.

"I think we should rest here today," I say quietly, not looking at him.

"Fine," he says simply.

And so, we continue to sit. For a long time. Neither of us wants to bring up last night – recalling it makes me feel ill. But I know I will have to at some point, and I kind of want to get it over with.

"So," I say, trying to lighten the atmosphere a little, "will there be any more murder attempts in the future?"

His expression contorts in a look of agony, and I feel like the biggest jackass in the world. I exhale, feeling like an invisible bag of rocks has settled on my shoulders.

"I've never done that to anyone in my sleep before," he says quietly.

I blink at him, wondering how this confession is supposed to make me feel.

"I told you that you would know when I was having a nightmare, Chelsea."

"I figured it meant shouting and hitting, not" –

"I told you, it's never happened before. I usually just hit a little when people try to wake me up. The worst I've ever done is accidentally given my mom a black eye. One of the worst days of my life." He shudders a little at the memory.

"I just cry and move around a little," I say, "and my dreams are pretty screwed up."

"Mine are, too," he says, "they just make me kind of violent sometimes. My mom usually just called to me to wake up after the one time I hurt her. Maybe I would have . . . choked . . . her, if she tried to wake me like you did."

I nod slowly. "So . . . so if it happens again . . . I just need to let it pass?"

"Yes," he agrees, extremely sincere, "just leave me alone. My nightmares usually don't last that long, I don't think. Just don't try to touch me and it won't happen again."

I stare at him, biting my lip. I want to believe him. But I don't know if I'll ever sleep beside him as comfortably again after what just happened. I'll never forget what it was like to have him pinning me down, not being able to move an inch under his weight, to feel his hands squeezing the air out of my body.

The same hands that had held my face so tenderly when we kissed, both times. I swallowed against a lump in my throat.

"Chelsea," he says.

I slowly lift my gaze to his. His voice burns with earnestness, regret so fierce in his voice my heart breaks a little.

"I swear to God, it will never happen again. I would never consciously hurt you. Ever."

"I know," I say, honestly, "I know you wouldn't. I just . . . I . . ."

"I know. It must have sucked. You can't even imagine how shitty I feel right now."

The memory of his sobs flashes through my mind, the way his tears fell unashamedly down his cheeks. I can't help it; I crawl towards him, staring into his eyes the whole time. They are a strange mix of wariness and pleading. But beautiful. Always beautiful.

Hesitantly, giving me the chance to move away from him if I wish to, his arms wrap around my small frame. He hugs me tightly to his chest, pressing a kiss to my temple.

"Do you believe me?" he whispers, "I _need _you to."

I move my face so that our foreheads are pressing together. "I do," I say, "I believe you."

It's true, I'll never forget last night. But. I may need to sleep close to him again later, for body heat, and, I think it would kill a small part of me to not be held in his arms as I drifted off to sleep. We've been traveling for a while now, and this is the first nightmare he's had, so they must not be that frequent.

I just have to watch out for them and . . . let them run their course when they show up. He holds me for quite some time, but eventually I suggest we go for a walk to stretch our legs. We leave our packs behind and walk outside into the surprisingly blinding sunlight. It's much warmer today than yesterday, warm enough even for us to strip off our sweatshirts and walk around in t-shirts. I can't help but admire his muscular arms as we walk.

"It's kind of nice to take day off," he muses as we go.

We're not headed back toward the road, away from it in fact, which is alright, I guess, as long as we keep the barn in sight. Getting lost in these seemingly endless farmlands and fields is not on my to-do list for today.

He reaches for my hand, and I let him take it. Our closeness today is pretty close to breaking our no-romance policy, but I think he still feels so guilty about last night, and physical contact is comforting him. And then an awesome thing happens; we stumble upon a lake.

It's wide and long and refreshing; it looks like a freaking miracle has just appeared before my eyes. The idea of bathing, even in somewhat questionably clean water, is so appealing I could cry.

I flash Vaughn and wide smile. "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"

"I sure as hell hope so," he says.

He laughs, and the sound makes my heart swell like someone has just handed me happiness on a platter. It affects me so deeply just to see him happy for just this moment – and with this realization comes a second one.

It is much more shocking, and I have a hard time thinking it. Vaughn lets go of my hand and starts racing forward, pulling his shirt over his head as he goes. He tosses it to the ground and watch him wade into the water and then start swimming with confident, powerful strokes. I want to follow him, badly, but I'm still marveling over my sudden epiphany.

He dives under and comes up snickering, and then throws me a curious look. "Aren't you coming?"

I blink and then nod. "Yeah, I am." I start walking towards the lake, and push my thoughts aside to focus on keeping clean. The thought is this:

I am falling in love with him.

**A/N: I smiled at my reviews for the last chapter a lot. Thanks. Could I please have more? ;)**


	13. Relief

_11: Relief_

_For fast-acting relief try slowing down.-__  
><em>_**Lily Tomlin**_

I pull off my shoes first, then my socks, moving slower than I should. I dip one toe in the water and shiver; it's really, really cold. But I can practically feel a layer of dirt and grime all over me, covering me like a second skin. If I don't get rid of it now, I fear it will seep through me and I'll never get it out.

"C'mon, Chelsea, it's not that cold," Vaughn encourages, that foreign note of unrestrained joy still lingering in his tone. Powerless to deny him when he's this cheerful, I pull my shirt off.

"What are you swimming in?" I ask; the water's not clear enough for me to see anything below his shoulders. He blinks at me and blushes; I make a mental note to try and get him to do that more often.

"Uh, nothing," he says quietly, "We really shouldn't get our clothes wet right now, if we want to keep moving after this. We don't have time to set them out to dry and they'll drip all over everything else in our bags . . ."

His reasoning sounds logical enough, but it sounds a bit like he's rambling, and I smile at the embarrassment in his voice. His eyes fall to the skin I've exposed by my lack of shirt; my bra is simple and white. I want him to like looking at me, but his comment about my thinness back when we had the car hits me with full force and I cross my arms over my chest and give him a stern look.

"I didn't ogle you while you were getting undressed," I say matter-of-factly, though this is mostly due to the fact that I completely missed him removing his pants when my epiphany hit. If I'd noticed, perhaps I would have looked.

"Oh, right . . . sorry . . ." He swallows and turns in the water.

Quickly, I undress myself until I'm as bare as the day I was born. I want to take some time to adjust to the temperature of the water, but the idea of standing here naked for longer than I have to makes me uncomfortable. So I tell myself not to be a baby and jump in much the same way Vaughn did just moments before.

"Oh my God, this _is_ cold, you liar," I say, only half playing.

He laughs. "Okay, so it's freaking freezing. But at least we'll be clean."

"Sounds like heaven to me," I sigh, wishing more than anything I had shampoo or body wash. I make due with dunking my head under for a bit and combing my fingers through the knotted tangles of my hair.

"Ugh," I grumbled, unable to smooth it completely. "If we get hold of some scissors, would you cut this for me?"

Water drips down his face; a drop falls from his nose and falls back into the lake. I find myself mesmerized by this small thing and almost miss his reply.

"I could try if you want. But you might look like the thing from the black lagoon by the time I get done." He snickers, amusement dancing in his eyes.

I smile, swimming around idly in a big circle, relishing the chance to relax for just a moment. I am always careful to keep my chest beneath the water, very aware of my lack of clothing.

"Honestly, I don't think I'd look much worse," I say honestly, "as I'm sure you've noticed, I won't be winning any beauty pageants right now."

And it's true. Maybe, in another life, I would be pretty. I have some pretty good basic essentials – bright blue eyes, a straight nose, fair, unblemished skin. But it's all horribly marred by how pale I am, the dark circles that continuously plague me, the gauntness of my frame, and that terrible look of emptiness hollowing out my gaze when I look in the mirror, like someone has forcibly sucked the life out of me.

His smile drops and he studies me seriously for a minute. Hesitantly, slowly, he drifts closer to me and reaches a hand up out of the water and rests it on my cheek. Surprise steals my breath, and an image of his body pressed against mine in the water makes me bite my lip and shiver.

"You are not ugly," he says sincerely, "You don't exactly look . . . healthy, but all that can be fixed. After you eat something and get a little color, you'll be prettier than you already are."

I swallow against a lump that has suddenly formed in my throat. "You think I'm pretty?"

"I . . ." He shrugs and looks away, "I guess I do."

I smile at him, but he still refuses to look at me. I wonder when the last time was that he willingly complimented someone.

"Well, thank you," I reply, "I think you're handsome."

He snorts and drops the hand from my face, but a little smile tugs at the corners of his lips. "Uh . . . thanks," he says, clearly at loss at how to answer.

"You're eyes are beautiful," I continue, "the most interesting color I've ever seen."

"Most people think they're fake," he confesses quietly, "but they're not. They're the same color as my father's."

"Is he . . . still around?" I ask quietly, hoping my question won't immediately build a thick wall between us.

"No, he died when I was little. But I remember him a little. He was a good guy."

"I remember my parents a little, too," I sigh, feeling like I should tell him something since he told me something. "Not as much as I'd like to, but . . . enough to make me miss them."

He nods, and I know he understands.

"Skipping around to different foster families all my life sucked, but . . ." I bite my tongue, knowing I shouldn't continue. My feelings on this little journey shouldn't matter, as I've told myself too many times already.

"But at least living with the Crazies allowed me to meet you," I say against my better judgment. He purses his lips in deep thought for a second.

"Staying with a family that would have been good to you was more important than meeting me, Chelsea," he says firmly, "We would have gotten along fine. You'd be happy, and I'd still be going to the Islands."

"Alone," I say, hurt worming into my heart. _Told you so_, said a little voice in the back of my head.

He shrugs. "I'd be alright."

"Uh-huh," I grumble, letting disbelief heavily lace each word, "Sure."

There's a short silence that passes between us, and I accept that the moment has passed.

"We should get out," he suggests softly, "We don't want to get too cold."

"Yeah," I agree, "You go first."

"Okay . . ." He smirks at me. "Please avert your eyes. If you want. I don't really care if you look."

Sure that my cheeks are red as a beet, I look away as he swims to the bank and emerges from the water. I concentrate on a bit of floating grass and count to fifty in my head to avoid thinking.

"Towels would be nice," I hear him grumble.

I don't reply. Another fifty passes in my head, and Vaughn clears his throat. "I'm done."

Nodding, I open my mouth to speak, but he interrupts me. "I won't look, Chelsea."

I nod once and wait till he turns away before getting out. Goosebumps immediately break out across my skin and violent shiver wracks my body. But I manage to dress myself anyway, somehow, and I hate how the fabric sticks to my damp skin; it'll be uncomfortable to walk today, and we have a lot of walking to do.

"I'm done," I say quietly.

He turns back to me, and shudders a little as a particularly chilly breeze hits us.

"I know I said we should rest today," I continue, "but we're basically out in the middle of nowhere, and we don't want to run out of food. So I think we'd better . . . start walking."

Vaughn groans, but he sighs and replies, "Yeah, you're probably right. Sucks, though."

We make out back to the little shack thing and gather all our stuff. Bidding it goodbye regretfully, we start making our way down the long, long road that doesn't have an end in sight.

"Looks like we could walk right off the face of the Earth," he comments as we go.

The sun is still high in the sky, but I have difficulty feeling any sort of warmth at all. The road really does look kind of ominous, winding its way across the countryside, seeming to taunt us with its length.

"I know," I say, "And wouldn't that be a tragedy?"

Sarcasm worms its way into my tone. I can't help it; I'm miserable in these wet clothes and the promise of this achingly long walk. He doesn't respond, but I glance at him and see a small frown. We walk in silence for a long time, and I make a silent promise to myself that if I get to these Islands and for some reason live happily ever after, I will walk as little as possible. This may be a bit of a challenge, since farmers have to do quite a bit of manual labor.

Well. At least I'd take a few days to rest. As the day wears on, I am still very cold. I can't seem to get warm. Snot dribbles a little from my left nostril, and I hurriedly wipe it away. I try to breathe through it, but it's not long before my sinuses are stuffed up, and I'm forced to breathe through my mouth, something I've always been a little uncomfortable with.

I hope it goes away soon; it is not the time or place to get sick. We stop to eat and drink something around noon and he eyes me.

"What?" I ask, and the stuffiness in my voice makes me wince.

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah, my nose is just clogged."

"Hmm. This isn't the best time to get a cold," he muses, echoing my thoughts.

"Well, it's not like I can politely ask it come back another time, Vaughn," I say, irritated.

His eyes instantly narrow and then he grimaces. "Whatever."

We start walking again, and I regret my lashing out, but I can't seem to stop acting disagreeable.

But still, I tell him softly, "Sorry."

"It's fine, Chelsea," he replies, but in a distant tone, and I know our day is pretty much shot to hell in the way of getting along.

When we stop by a sign promising only a few miles to the next town, I accidentally step on his foot and he snaps at me to be more careful. We argue about stupid things that don't matter, and by the time it is beginning to get dark, we are both mentally exhausted from the continuous bickering.

"Where are we sleeping tonight?" I wonder.

"In the middle of the road," he growls, "Where do you think?"

I shoot him a withering glance and am reminded of the days when we first met and greatly disliked each other.

"Well, at least by it," I grumble, "There's no miracle shack tonight."

He rolls his eyes in response and we keep walking until we decide to sleep under a rather large tree about ten feet from the road. He lets his pack drop to the ground, and then plops down with his back to the trunk, still avoiding my eyes. I copy him and decide to sit a few feet away. The temperature has dropped a considerable amount, and it's amazing I'm even able to concentrate on my aggravation with Vaughn when I'm so _frozen. _

I wrap my arms around my knees and try to prevent my teeth from chattering. The chill in the wind is brutal, biting my cheeks and the tip of my nose. I'm sure this type of cold will seep into our skin and stiffen our joints. I think about what we must look like – two runaway teens sleeping on the side of the road, under a tree, in terribly cold weather, and I want to cry. But that would just make my nose run even more, so I don't.

We eat a small dinner silently, and I know that we're going to have to make a store run as soon as we enter the next city. I mention this to him and he nods without a word. When we're through eating, it's dark enough to sleep – I can barely see him, even as close as I am. Normally, this is the time I would crawl over to him and go to sleep, but we're on such bad terms at the moment that I'm not sure if he wants me to.

But, whether he does or not, we might need the body heat to just stay alive, so we'll have to do it, regardless of our pride. While I am silently deliberating, I hear him exhale in defeat, and I hear his voice in the darkness.

"Chelsea, come here."

"Hmph," I say, disliking the sharp way he said it.

Several moments pass, and he adds a belated, "Please."

Sighing, I manage to scoot over to him, surprised that my bones don't crack when I do. He wraps me in his arms without hesitation, holding my head to his chest with one hand.

"Let me . . ." I try to slide my arms around his waist in return, but he just squeezes me tighter.

"Go to sleep, Chelsea, or at least try. I know it's cold."

"You're colder than I am," I sigh, "Just let me."

It's frustrating that I can't offer him more warmth, but I am simply smaller than he is.

"Maybe," he reluctantly agrees, "but you're getting sick. Maybe we could steal – no, we'd buy it, it's too important to risk getting caught – some medicine for you, but with no real warm place to rest and get strong again, the flu could be deadly."

I shiver, this time from his words and not the weather. I bite my lip and glance up at him, making out his expression in the dim light of the stars. I have no idea what expression is on my face, but it must be a bad one, because he cups my face with one hand and strokes my cheek with his thumb.

"It's alright," he says quietly, sincerely, "I wouldn't let you die or anything. We'll just . . . go slower. Maybe find a place to stay in the next city, like with Gemma and Jax."

"I think we just got lucky that time, Vaughn," I whisper, and I'm horrified to feel tears forming in my eyes.

"It's okay," he says again, firmer this time.

His lips touch my forehead, and my eyes close. A single tear escapes, and I'm surprised it does not immediately freeze on my face and fall to the ground with a clatter. I think about my epiphany from before, about falling in love, and think for a moment about how inconvenient it is at this time. I, of course, won't mention it to him.

It's already been made obvious that we're attracted to each other, and we're helping each other greatly through this difficult journey, but we're still just friends. And there's still only one job. I curse myself and my stupid feelings. Just another problem to add to the already soul-crushingly long stack.

"Thanks," I say, "I know I was a jerk today, and . . . I'm sorry, again."

"Well, I'm sorry for being a jerk since the day we met." He smirks. "But I can't promise to start being different."

"You are who you are. I accept that. I . . . I mean, I like you. You know that."

"Yeah . . . I do." He pauses, looking up at the sky, and I study the pale skin of his throat and jaw. I want to kiss him there.

"Get some sleep, Chelsea," Vaughn advises, leaning his head back against the tree trunk and closing his eyes.

Another breeze hits us, though now the wind is partially blocked thanks to the tree. I cling to him for warmth, and he's holding onto me just as tightly. But as I try to ignore the cold and sleep, the memory of last night worms its way into my head. I eye his face warily. What if he has another nightmare? What if he starts lashing out before I can wake up and move away? What if I don't succeed in waking him up fast enough this time?

I absolutely hated feeling so utterly and totally helpless, pinned to the ground, knowing that death is very near without necessary oxygen in my lungs? He must feel the sudden tension in my body, because his eyes open again and he looks at me.

"It won't happen tonight, Chelsea. I'm way too tired to dream. Relax. I won't . . . I wouldn't . . ."

He makes no effort to hide the pleading in his voice, and I know how deeply our little episode last night cut into him. I swallow against a lump in my throat. I want so badly to feel as comfortable in his arms as I used to, but it'll take a while before it happens again. Still, I like having him hold me, and not just because of the cold.

"Okay," I agree softly, and when my eyes again, I drift into oblivion. And hope that by morning, we're not two solid blocks of ice by the road, which will soon melt away with the passage of time.

**OoOoOoOoO**

I still feel sick in the morning, but it's not as bad as it got last night. At least, that's what I keep telling myself. Vaughn and I ate very little for breakfast in the morning, and then we were off. We still had a ways to go, but as we were walking – hand in hand, I must add – a beat up white pickup truck slows to a crawl beside us, and we look up warily. The driver's window rolls down, and we are greeted with a pair of curious, dark eyes.

The eyes are gray, and set into a heart shaped face with a long nose and large, circular black-framed glasses.

"You guys look tired. Want a lift?" the woman asks bluntly.

Vaughn and I glance at each other, momentarily baffled. When someone pops up out of nowhere and offers help in a bleak situation, it's difficult to say no, but I wasn't so sure about getting in the car with a complete stranger. But then, shouldn't _she_ be more worried? I would never pick up hitchhikers.

I would be way too wary of them; they could easily turn out to by psychopathic serial killers. But the woman – though, upon further inspection, _girl_ seemed more fitting. She can't be more than a few years older than me. Her shoulder-length black hair falls to her shoulders, and it's pinned and curled weirdly in different places with clips and elastic bands.

Her lips are painted a shocking shade of red, and I can tell that black is not her hair's natural color because she's got a smattered of red freckles across the bridge of her nose.

"Uh . . ." is all I can think of to say.

"Maybe," Vaughn says.

The girl raises an eyebrow at him. "Don't have time for 'maybe', guy. Either you do or you don't."

"Why do you want to help us?" I ask suspiciously. "You have no idea who we are."

"Can't a person feel sorry for two homeless kids trudging along beside the road? Common human courtesy." She gestures to the back door of the pickup. "Going once . . ."

"Kind of risky," Vaughn mutters to me.

"Going twice . . ."

"At this point, the grim reaper could show up and I'd be relieved because it meant not more walking," I grumble back at him, and reach for the door handle. "

Alright," I say, "Sure. Thanks. You headed into the city?"

"Yep. Just got back from visiting my old grandma. She's got a few acres of land out here."

We climb in, and the truck is moving just as soon as we do. Sitting down, I decide, is absolute ecstasy. The girl glances at us in her mirror.

"Neither of you are rapists or thugs or anything, right?"

I smirk. She's choosing to ask _after_ we get in the truck? And like we would tell the truth if we were.

"No," I say, "we're just two regular teens making our way around."

"Runaways?" the girl guesses. Vaughn shrugs and looks out the window. He does nothing to confirm it verbally, but I can tell how grateful he is for the set of wheels by the way tension that has left his body. I open my mouth to say thank you, but an intense coughing fit chooses to strike at that moment, and I'm hacking into my elbow before I can stop it.

"Nasty cough you got," the girl comments, taking the next exit – it would have taken at least the rest of the day to reach it on foot. A shiver zips through me, and I suddenly feel just as bad as last night. When we get to the city and have to get out of the car, I may just lie down on the sidewalk and never get back up.

Vaughn eyes me, not bothering to conceal his concern. He reaches over and squeezes my hand.

"I started feeling sick yesterday," I sigh.

"It's supposed to get really cold tonight," she comments, meeting my eyes for a moment in the mirror. Her tone is cautious, but also caring. "Do you guys . . . have someplace to stay?"

"No, but we'll find something, somewhere," Vaughn says, managing to sound kind of detached, but it's hard to completely cover the note of exhaustion in his voice.

"Oh. Well . . . with that cold . . . and no, like, warm beds or medicine or whatever . . . you might . . ."

"Get sicker? And then die? Probably. I knew it was a big possibility before I left. We both did."

And I had. Do I regret my decision? My aching limbs and congested head tell me I do, but my heart is telling me otherwise. This was my one chance to be free. The girl frowns, and I take note that the city we find ourselves in seems just as big and bustling as the last one. No way in hell am I leaving on anything but a bus this time, I vow silently.

"You can let us out here," Vaughn says as the truck rolls to a stop at a red light.

"Just a minute," the girl says.

We drive for another few minutes, and then she pulls into the parking lot of green apartment buildings with faded paint and an old sign proclaiming it as _Golden Acres. _The girl twists in the seat to look at the both of us; her glasses fall a little as she moves, and she quickly reaches up to shove them back into place.

"I'd really like to help you guys out a little," she says, and I note the sincerity in her voice. "And I realize I'm probably the dumbest person on the planet, asking two random people she picked up on the street into her house, but I just went through a personal situation where I should've helped someone and didn't, so maybe this is my little way of making up for it. So, come up with me for a meal, and maybe a shower. But don't go all horror-movie on me, okay? Please? My name's Haven, by the way."

I blink at her as I process this information. I have to agree with her, this really isn't smart. She lucky we're _not_ escaped convicts or something. But I'm not about to voice this thought – I'm going to take the opportunity to rest and be thankful about it, damn it.

"Thanks, we'd really appreciate that. I'm Chelsea, and this is Vaughn."

"You two on the run from something?"

I bite my lip, and hesitate too long in coming up with a decent lie. Haven waves her hand in the air and adds, "Never mind, it's fine."

She hops from the truck and gestures for us to follow.

"Lucky break for us," Vaughn comments.

"Seriously."

We follow her up the stairs to a shabby apartment littered with odd little things; Styrofoam cups, glitter glue, construction paper, beads, fake jewels and such. Framed pictures hang all over the walls, obviously homemade.

"I love art," she tells us, "but art hates me."

The drawings really aren't very good, but it's nice that she tries, I guess. Must be nice to have time for hobbies. She offers us soup and sandwiches, which we attempt to ear normally rather than stuffing our faces like savages. I take a moment to appreciate that it's actually warm in here. Been a while since cold wasn't my constant companion. I sneeze three times over lunch and feel what seems like a pulse beating in my head. I find Haven's bathroom with her permission and snag an Advil.

I wanted the Nyquil, which is more appropriate for coughs, but all she had was nighttime, and I didn't need to be drugged into sleep. It started raining at some point while we ate – hard, with hail mixed in. Vaughn and I both got a shower, and it was by far the most heavenly experience of my entire life. To be so _clean_ again was indescribable.

When the bad weather showed no sign of letting up, Haven offered us sleeping bags to put in the living room and then went to bed around nine. I slipped into it and yawned; she'd let me borrow a pair of sweatpants and a nondescript white t-shirt, and Vaughn got some of her boyfriend's clothes. I lay there and replayed everything that had happened in my mind, unable to believe the sudden streak of good fortune.

Hopefully it wouldn't be balanced out by the _bad _fortune in the future. "I can't believe I'm clean again," I say with a little laugh. He smiles, a real smile that brings an odd wave of contentment into my heart.

"I know," he replies quietly. "But it's back to walking tomorrow."

I groan. "My aching feet."

"I think we could get there in a few more days," he says.

"Really?"

"Mmm-hmm. If we hurry."

Well. Something to feel good about. I turn over and attempt to fall asleep, but I can't, which is ridiculous because I'm somewhat comfortable for the first time in what feels like forever. But I've grown so used to sleeping beside Vaughn – not beside like we are now, but wrapped up in each other – that I have a hard time being alone now, despite what happened before. Though it's still a little nerve-wracking, I . . . want it.

"Vaughn . . . I . . . could you . . ." I bite the inside of my cheek, knowing there's no way to phrase it without sounding stupid.

"Yes?"

"I just . . . never mind." I sigh.

"Chelsea, tell me."

"I don't want to say it."

Hesitantly, I reach for his arm and pull it over my waist. Then I scoot back a little in the bag so he's against me. Thankfully, I don't have to look at his face. Hoping he doesn't comment on it, I close my eyes and bask in the comfort this brings. I feel his thumb stroke my cheek a few times, and then a sigh of his own.

"Yeah, I'm used to this now, too."

**A/N: I realize that not a lot happens in this chapter. I apologize for that. **


	14. Delayed

_**12: Delayed**_

_Circumstances may cause interruptions and delays, but never lose sight of your goal.__  
><em>**_- _**_**Mario Andretti**_

When I wake up the next morning, it takes me a while to figure out where I am. It's been a while since I slept in anything even closely resembling a bed. It's about six in the morning, which is when we both usually rise, and start moving. But Haven's door is still shut, it's dark outside, and it hasn't stopped raining.

Beside me, Vaughn is still asleep, snoring quietly. It's the first time I've ever heard it; maybe he does it when he feels comfortable and safe enough to relax. I smile a little at the thought, reaching up to touch his face.

With how tense both of us have been lately, even unconsciousness hasn't been a relief. I can see how I've benefited from last night, too, because I feel a lot better. My nose is still a little plugged, but I no longer feel like I'm lingering on death's doorstep. Seeing no reason to rush through this morning, I close my eyes and snuggle up against Vaughn's chest.

**OoOoOoOoO**

I'm startled awake by the sound of glass shattering in the kitchen. I shoot up without thinking, my startled brain immediately believing something is wrong, and I must flee. But all I receive for my thoughtless action is a head rush that hurts like hell.

Most of the time, my instinct to be constantly aware and ready to run serves me well, but in times of calm like these it's more annoying than anything else. I shuffle into the kitchen. Haven's sweeping up shards of glass into a dust bin, which Vaughn is holding.

"Morning," she says when she sees me.

Her hair is pulled back into a single ponytail, unlike yesterday when bits and pieces of it were pinned every which where.

"Hi," I answer. I glance at the clock on the microwave and am shocked to discover that it's ten in the morning.

"Why didn't you wake me sooner? We should have left hours ago," I say to Vaughn.

He dumps the glass in the garbage and shrugs. "I was gonna, but I only woke up an hour ago. And you were sick yesterday."

"I feel better now. Good enough to start walking again."

"And just where are you going? Have you been traveling long since you . . . left?" Haven gets a new glass from the cupboard and fills it with milk. Her tone is light and nonchalant, but I hear the earnest curiosity.

"Only about a week from now, but it feels like it's been eternity," I say, ignoring her first question completely. I stand awkwardly I the doorway until Haven gestures me in.

"Come in, Chelsea, make toast. I've got nowhere to be today, there's no rush."

Gratefully, I make toast, and find myself a bowl of cereal.

"Did you eat?" I ask Vaughn as he sits down across from me. He's already dressed in his jeans and sweatshirt, so I know he's ready to go at a moment's notice. The dark circles under his eyes are mostly gone, and it makes me happy to see him so well rested.

"Yeah," he says.

When I finish, I slip into the bathroom to change and can't resist the little bottle of perfume on the counter. As I step into the hallway, though, I hear Haven's voice come from the other side of her cracked open bedroom door. She's speaking softly, so it's hard to hear, but I step closer and make out the words.

" . . . don't know where they're going," she's saying, "but they're definitely the same two kids I saw on the missing persons poster I saw the other day."

I blink in horror as she rattles off her address, undoubtedly to the police. I slip back into the kitchen, where Vaughn is sliding sandwiches into our packs.

"We're leaving now," I whisper, yanking the zippers closed and pulling my pack onto my shoulders.

"What's the hurry?" He sounds aggravated at being interrupted, but we don't have time to argue.

"I just overheard Haven on the phone with the cops," I hiss, "they're on their way."

Fear flashes in his eyes. He grabs his pack and slides past me, stopping at the front door, waiting for me to catch up.

"Shame we can't say goodbye," I comment sadly as we shut the door behind us and zip down the stairs.

"If we waited to say goodbye," Vaughn says grimly, "we'd be shipped back into hell before we could blink."

**OoOoOoOoO**

This city looks much the same as the last one, but maybe it just seems that way to me. They're all meaningless places I'm passing through, so they blur together in my mind, pointless pictures I can't make sense of. Though we don't want to steal, Vaughn and I agree that we're not walking to the next city and almost freeze to death on the way there again.

We split apart in a crowded section of the city and agree to meet up in the park. Neither of us will wander so far away that it gets out of our sight, because if we do get lost, we're screwed and might as well make our way to the islands on our own. I stand beside a big fountain in a square, studying all the different people who pass by closely, but not too closely.

I left my pack behind a dumpster in the mouth of an ally parallel to where I stand. I brushed my hair, my teeth, and had a shower last night. I've even got a little mascara on. Nobody gives me any weird looks, and it's nice to know I don't look so grimy and lost anymore. But Vaughn and I can't hang around in the same place for very long; someone could recognize us from the missing persons poster just as easily as Haven had.

I feel energetic and better than I have in ages, but I'm not going to let it make me cocky. I spy a middle-aged man coming my way in a big gray coat and nicely pressed pants. He looks like he could afford to lose some money. I saw a woman earlier with her wallet very loosely in her grip, but she was so tired looking, practically dragging her feet across the sidewalk, and I could not bring myself to steal from her.

I set off towards the park, and "accidentally" bump into the man. As we collide, I reach up and slide my hand into the inside pocket of his coat. Quickly, I step back and shove my stolen wallet into the pack pocket of my jeans. I blink several times and make a show of looking dazed.

"Excuse me, sir," I say, stepping around him.

The man steadies himself and mutters "it's alright" under his breath and walks hurriedly away. Feeling triumphant yet guilty, I enter the ally across from me, grab my pack and then hurry to the park, stopping at a black bench, where Vaughn sits, waiting. I get the black leather wallet out of my pocket and hold it up. He, in return, shows me a crisp fifty dollar bill.

"Where'd you get that?" I ask, plopping down next to him.

"Some woman's purse. Couldn't risk taking the whole thing. You?"

I explain about the man and open the wallet, ignoring the license and the credit cards. It's the cash I'm after. There's quite a few small bills, and after I count it all up, it comes to seventy three dollars.

"Not bad at all," I say as we put our money in our bags.

"More than enough for the bus, anyway." He's smiling, in a decent mood today.

I nod and absentmindedly reach for his hand. It's finally a nice, clear day, with blue skies filled with clouds so light and puffy they couldn't possibly be holding any rain. I run my thumb over the back of his hand, avoiding his eyes, which I know are on me. I'm struck by the thought of my growing affection for him again, but I push it away, in favor of a more practical one.

"We're so close," I say softly. "We're actually going to make it. Part of me didn't think we would . . ."

"We can't breathe easy yet," Vaughn says, ever the optimist, "I mean, we still have to worry about actually getting the job."

"One step at a time," I tell him.

He squeezes my hand, and I hesitantly glance up at him. His eyes are soft, and I can't help wishing he would make this face more often. But I guess, in order to, he would have to have a good reason. And reasons to be kind and loving in this life have been few.

"Traveling with you hasn't been as awful as I thought it would be," he admits, and I chuckle.

"'Not at awful'? It's just flat-out impossible to say something flat-out nice, isn't it?" My tone is light, so he knows I'm joking.

He shrugs and looks away.

"Wish we had the time to just be lazy in the park today," I say wistfully.

A couple walks by just then, holding hands, looking carefree and in love. Some day, I promise myself, that will be me. It's a bold thing to think; I don't usually let my hopes get so high. But I feel too good to care; I'll be angsty and broody later. It's inevitable. For now, I entertain the fantasy of me walking down the street with my boyfriend, with no major worries. I even go so far as to cast Vaughn in that particular role, and the image soothes my tattered soul.

"Me, too," Vaughn sighs, getting to his feet. By this time, it's about one thirty, so we agree to go get some legally obtained lunch.

**OoOoOoOoO**

Okay, so maybe this city is a little bigger than the last one. By the time we locate the bus station, they've stopped running for the day and we're forced to find somewhere to rest until early morning. For once, it's not raining, but it's still cold, and I miss the warmth of Haven's apartment so much it hurts.

We wander aimlessly for at least an hour. We've been lucky before; we may just have to settle for an ally, although it's risky; who knows what kind of people might be settled there already. Late into the evening, I stop and lean against the wall of a closed book store.

"The sidewalk is beginning to look promising," I say, only half joking.

Vaughn shakes his head and looks around anxiously. The dark circles under his eyes are back; whatever peace he found in our one night of safety had vanished completely. I want so desperately to give it back to him, to make him happy and safe. Both of those things are so not in my ability to give it's almost funny.

I have myself to think about, first and foremost. Wasn't that part of the point of this whole trip? Leaving everything behind, gaining complete independence, having no one to worry about but myself? And here I am, getting myself all worked up about Vaughn's well being, when in reality, he probably didn't share a fraction of my feelings.

A chilly wind whips past, far too similar to the one from the fields. We hunker down behind two clearance racks outside the store, where I cling to him, my teeth chattering before I could stop them.

"We didn't have dinner," he says softly.

"Not m-much left," I get out.

He hands me a protein bar, the last from our stash, and I sigh. "Split it with me."

"I'm fine," he argues, looking away.

"You don't have to act so strong. You're human. You need to eat, too."

He opens his mouth to argue, but I cut him off angrily. "Stop treating me so delicately. A while ago, you told me that you're ultimate goal was to get the Islands and keep yourself safe. I don't to . . . feel things for you, but sometimes you don't make it easy."

I'm not sure what possesses me to say this last part, but it's out there, and that's how I feel. I don't want to be caring for him, worrying about him. But of course, the universe descries to screw with me by sending me on my insane little quest with the one person I might possibly, start to love. Not that I'm crazily, flat out in love with him; I'm just saying I've seen the distinct possibility in the future of it happening. And that makes me mad.

"If you're not careful, I'll start to think you care," I add grumpily.

I push the bar back into his hands. I have – unbelievably – lost my appetite. Vaughn just stares at me for a long time, his eyes hard and unreadable. He stuffs the bar into his pack and looks away, quiet for so long I suspect I won't get an answer.

"I care," he mutters finally.

"Oh?" I fish. "Is that so?"

"Yes," he snaps, "I do. Do you think I like it any more than I do? I want to go back to seeing you as the weird little emo girl ghosting around the school."

I was asking for it, I suppose.

"But I can't," he continues, "and there's nothing I can do about it now. I like having you around. I like that you're just as screwed up as I am and can emphasize a little. It's just one more thing to deal with, Chelsea."

I exhale sharply and stare down at my hands, unsure of what to make of his replies. "We . . . we like each other," I tell him quietly, "and this is not the time, nor place. I get that. It doesn't have to be a problem, Vaughn. We don't have to deal with it at all. I think we've done a great job of ignoring the elephant in the room so far."

Not that it's been easy.

"Yeah. And it's sucked," he sighs, "I . . ."

We both fall silent, listening to the sound of passing cars and the various sounds of a city that never truly sleeps. There's one position on the islands. If one of us gets it, the other won't have the money or the means to stay. And this whole rip will have been in vain. Suddenly, I feel fingers under my chin, pushing it up.

Then I feel a soft, gentle kiss on my lips for just a second. Butterflies dance around in my stomach and my skin tingles irrationally from his touch.

"It gets harder every day," Vaughn says, holding my face in his hands, "not to do that."

"So do it," I whisper, breathless by the emotion in his eyes, eyes that are usually so flat and cold. But beautiful, always beautiful.

He shakes his head and lets his hands drop, and I ache for the lost contact. "It would make it hard," Vaughn whispers, "in the end."

Right. The end. If I gave into my own wishes and desires and was romantically attached to him until we reached our goal, did it decrease my desire to get there? Yes. It did. But. I still want to go. It figures that I would finally get all the freedom and happiness I wanted all my life, but at a very high price.

"I know you're right," I sigh, "even though I want to think you're wrong."

"Good. We agree, then. Now, let's just leave it alone, please? No point in beating the issue to death." His expression instantly shifts into its usual blankness. "We should look for someplace warmer. I heard someone in the park say that it's going to get below freezing tonight."

"Oh, happy day," I mutter as he helps me to my feet, hands lingering a little longer than necessary. Well, at least now I know I'm not delusional, making up feelings between us that aren't there.

We've resolved next to nothing with this little talk, and it hurts my heart. We wander around for a bit and eventually stumble across a little group of homeless people huddled around a fire in a garbage can. Normally, we would steer clear of others, but the promise of some warmth is too great, and we agree to take a risk.

We approach the three of them hesitantly, calling out a hello. One of them turns; it's a woman, with greasy brown hair just poking out from beneath her green wool cap. She's actually a little chubby, which is surprising, under the circumstances. She and two others – which I now see are men – are all in coats, one with fingerless gloves.

The woman appraises us just as cautiously as we stop in front of her; Vaughn angles his body so he slightly in front me, protectively. A part of me is touched by this gesture, but I have no time to consider it now.

"You two are a bit young to be here alone at this time of night," she says, her voice cracking once. She's missing one of her teeth. I want to roll my eyes – as if homelessness has an age limit.

"We're just looking for someplace warm to sleep tonight. We'll be gone by tomorrow morning, early," I inform her.

I search her eyes for any indication of madness, but she appears pretty sane. I hope the same can be said of her friends. The woman shrugs and gestures for the men to step back, widening the circle. We take two places next to her, by the fire. They introduce themselves when we ask.

"I'm Cindy," says the woman, "and this is Max."

The first guy waves at us halfheartedly and mutters a hello. He's just as filthy as Cindy, but he too, appears mentally stable. The third man I can't be too sure of. He tells us his name is Sid, but when he turns back to the fire, he seems to be mumbling things to himself under his breath, and his gaze never seems to linger anywhere for long, eyes darting around constantly, fingers shaky over the flames.

Vaughn must have jumped to the same conclusion as me, because he periodically glances at Sid suspiciously. The fire feels wonderful under my frozen fingers, thawing them out and bringing the feeling back into them. Everyone has some sort of bag; Cindy carries a single plastic grocery store bag, Max has got some sort of shoulder pack and Sid, like us, has a backpack. None of them talk very much, which is just fine by me.

When the fire burns down, we all lie down on the cold concrete floor. Sid pulls a paper plate stacked with cookies in plaster wrap and offers them to everyone. He's stopped mumbling by now and is actually acting a lot less crazy than before, eyes focused and speech clear. I've had two meals today, which is more than I can say for maybe the past month of my life, but I'm still hungry.

I take one, but wait for Cindy and Max to finish theirs. Nothing funny happens to them, so I consider eating it, but Vaughn shoots me a disapproving look, and I decide he's probably right. I push the cookie into my backpack to throw away later.

Sid shoots me a crooked smile – his teeth are tinged yellow and his blue eyes are bloodshot. I shiver a little and look away. Cindy yawns, mutters goodnight, and lies down next to Max. Within minutes, they're both snoring. Vaughn and I wait to relax until Sid is asleep, too.

"That guy is creepy," I mutter in his ear.

"I know. We'll leave before any of them wake up tomorrow. The buses start running pretty early."

We use our packs and pillows, as the others have, and he holds me in much the same way as last night, when we had the comfort of sleeping bags and actual pillows. I shiver in the cold, and he rubs my arm quickly, trying to warm it with friction. I appreciate his efforts, but really, nothing is going to help a whole lot out here short of a heater or a blanket. Falling asleep is difficult; when Vaughn is finally asleep, I focus on the even, relaxing sound and feel of his breathing. It helps, and eventually I manage to drift.

**OoOoOoOoO**

There's a hand slapped across my mouth. That's the first thing my brain registers when I'm startled awake. My eyes fly open and focus on the face of Sid, staring down at me with what appear to be curious eyes. I can smell his foul body odor this close up; he smells like a mix of garbage and tuna fish.

God only knows where the latter comes from. He's hovering over me, and the sight makes any drowsiness I might have felt in the first moments of awakening.

"What the hell are you _doing?_" I try to say, but with his hand pressed against my mouth it sounds more like "Wutduhullyadoim".

I feel his knee dig into one my thighs, and my eyes get as wide as plates when I also feel a hand on my bare stomach. I try to shove him off me before the horror of this fully reaches my mind. I'd rather be killed, tortured, beat – _anything_ but be raped. I can't think of a single thing I wouldn't take over it.

"Hush, little girl," Sid snaps, "you owe me for that cookie."

Up close, I can see a smattering of red across the left side of his eye where a blood vessel has popped. Frantically, I look over to see Vaughn snoozing about eight feet away. Did Sid somehow drag me across the ground without waking me up? It's possible, but odd, considering I've always been a light sleeper.

The hand that was on my stomach moves up and squeezes one of my breasts, and I want to vomit. Trying to bite at his hand, I start to thrash and kick and struggle for all I'm worth – surely one of them will wake up. I succeed in biting him – he snatches his hand away, curses, and wobbles as I resist.

He's pretty thin, and being homeless for who knows how long has probably made him somewhat weak, but when I head-butt him, it's at the wrong angle and doesn't deliver full-scale force. Sid slaps me, and stars dance across my eyes; I've bitten my tongue, and taste blood. Satisfied that I am momentarily subdued, he rears up on his knees and starts fumbling with the button of his tattered jeans.

Thinking through the pain, I let out a shriek, and my head falls to the side. I meet the gaze of deep amethyst eyes set into a face twisted in a mask of shock. Vaughn blinks and sits up, taking in the scene before him; me in my back with a probably red cheek (it must be red, it feels like it's going to fall off), and Sid yanking down the zipper on his pants.

Shock morphs into fury in two seconds flat, and he jumps to his feet, rushing Sid and sending him sprawling with a sharp kick in the stomach.

"What the - ?" Sid blinks, and wisely decides to shield his head with his arms as more vicious kicks rain down upon him.

"You _sick bastard,_" Vaughn is snarling at him.

Rubbing my cheek, I manage to get to my feet and walk to where he's standing.

"Vaughn, stop," I tell him, "let's just go."

He turns, gritting his teeth in anger, and is about to answer me when suddenly a shape flies out of nowhere and tackles him to the ground landing with a thud right next to Sid, who is now holding his sides with a pained expression on his face. Max is on top of Vaughn, punching and hitting with such ferocity I wondered how I could have ever mistook him for the docile, sane one.

Cindy, too, jumps into the fray, joining her partner in his assault on mine (uh, traveling partner, that is). Horrified, I try to pull Cindy back, and am rewarded with an elbow to the face, cracking across my nose so hard tears well in my eyes.

"Stop it!" I scream at them; apparently, the two of them were more buddy-buddy with Sid than I originally guessed.

Crying out in rage, I recover my wits and sprang on Cindy again, grabbing a fistful of her hair and hat and yanking backward as hard as I could. She yelps in pain, her hands immediately going to her scalp. Still yelling angrily, I let go all at once and my fist slams into her face, and I could go wrong, but I think I hear something snap.

She staggers and falls to her knees. A sharp surge of victory goes through me; it felt good to release some of my anger like that. Turning, I attack Max, who is still attacking Vaughn. We manage fend him off between the two of us, and I expect we'll have to incapacitate him in some way to get him to quit, but when he catches sight of Cindy he stops throwing punches and slinks to her side, sending us a hostile glare.

"Let's get the hell out of here," I say, wincing at the blood running down Vaughn's cheek from a cut under his eye.

I can't tell how deep or bad it is right now, but I pray it doesn't need stitches. He nods, grabs my hand, and we skirt around the three crazy homeless people, yank our packs up into our arms, and hurry away.

Deeper into the heart of the city.

**A/N: I apologize for failing at updates.**


	15. Unexpected

_13: Unexpected_

"_Time__is a sort of river of passing events, and strong is its current; no sooner is a thing brought to sight than it is swept by and another takes its place, and this too will be swept away."__ – __**Marcus Aurelius**_

When we finally stop running, we're in an empty parking lot outside a pet store. The sun is in the middle of rising; I guess it's close to seven in the morning. My knees feel wobbly and threaten to buckle at any moment; I lean against the single blue car in the lot for support, dropping my bag to the ground. I didn't have time to properly slide it onto my shoulders before we ran away. Vaughn is breathing heavy; we were sprinting for a long time.

Not because they were following us, but because I think we both wanted to put as much distance between ourselves and the group as quickly as possible. He drops his bag beside mine, takes a deep breath and steadies himself. He looks at me, concern and worry openly displayed on his face, and part of me is surprised he lets me see it.

"Are you okay?" he says quietly, and then shakes his head, turning away from me and staring off in the direction we came from.

His hands are clenched at his sides, and I say gently, "I'm alright, Vaughn. I'm more worried about you."

There's still blood on his face, on his left cheek, and I wonder if Max was wearing some kind of weird ring.

"No, of course you're not okay," he mutters to himself, as if I haven't spoken.

"I just said I was," I say, annoyed he won't turn so I can examine him.

"You're not okay," he says again, "How could you possibly be okay after . . ."

He turns, and I wince at the pain in his eyes. Pain for me. He takes my hands in his, handling them like they are made of fragile glass. "Did he hurt you?"

"No, Vaughn," I answer. I don't want to lie, but I feel like I should calm him down.

"Your cheek is really red." He lays his palm against it.

"And yours is bloody. I think blood beats bruised."

He leans his forehead against mine, shutting his eyes and exhaling sharply. "You don't know how awful it was, Chelsea . . . waking up to that."

"Actually, I can. I did wake up to it." I shiver involuntarily, unable to shake the memory of Sid's unwanted hands on my body, and knowing what he would have done had he not been stopped made me bite the inside of my cheek hard.

I feel like his touch has left physical stains on me that I can't get off, because every time I blink, I feel it there again.

"We should have taken our chances in the cold. I should never have let this happen to you . . ."

"Please. Don't take responsibility for a choice that was equally ours. It isn't your job to look after me, Vaughn. I've done alright in the past almost seventeen years, in view of the circumstances." I wait until his eyes open again, and add softly, "Besides, we said in the beginning we would put ourselves first."

"I know. I'd still like to have that attitude. But I don't think either of us can fully embrace that policy anymore."

I swallow against a hard lump that has lodged itself in my throat. "I know."

I want things to work out for him. I want him to be happy. More than I want myself to be? I've never been able to be that selfless, have I? The walls that have been so cautiously placed between us are cracking and crumbling; I can feel them break. I'm this close to saying to hell with whatever pain it might bring me in the future and declare my love for him right then and there.

"Let me look at your face," I say sternly.

He nods and steps back. The cut doesn't look as bad as it had at first glance. "I saw store a ways back. I think it was a twenty four hour one; let's go get some peroxide so it doesn't get infected."

"It's not that bad," Vaughn replies, as I suspected he would, "let's just go find the bus station. The sooner we leave, the better."

"No. I want to get the peroxide."

"Chelsea, I'm fine."

"Do you think I feel different about your health than you do mine?" I question, aggravated, "When you try to give me more than my share of the food, when you keep me warm at night, those are considerate things you do for me. I want to help you, too."

I stare at him desperately, wanting him to understand. "I _couldn't _just start thinking about only myself again, Vaughn. You're too deep in my head to forget."

He sighs, and half smiles, but there's still a tightness to his gaze, anxiety that never truly fades. "Okay, Chelsea, but I'm going along with this for you. It's not necessary. I'm fine."

"So you've said," I grumble, picking up my bag – and dropping it again.

"What's wrong?" Vaughn asks.

"This isn't my backpack; I . . . I must have grabbed the wrong one by mistake."

It's definitely not mine; this one is even more tattered than mine, and has a different logo on the front. One of the straps is slightly torn and there's a wrapper stuffed into a side pocket.

Vaughn sighs. "Goodbye, seventy bucks."

"And my clothes. My hairbrush, my toothbrush." I want to kick myself for doing this, but there's not much I can do to change it now.

I glance up at him, expecting him to be angry – after all, the last time we'd lost money he'd had a fit and stomped off on his own for a while, too angry to stick around. But he just looks mildly irritated.

"Well, let's at least see if there's anything we can use in it," he says, a note of acceptance in his voice.

I guess I can't say I'm surprised; we're both so used to stuff like this happening we don't have the energy to be upset about it anymore. Or maybe we've just learned to take stuff as it comes at us the best we can, since getting angry and pissy is just timed wasted we could have used elsewhere. Mumbling curses under my breath, I yank the zipper open and rummage through the bag.

There's a few clothes I know I'd never wear if my life depends on it; they belonged to Sid, and his weird garbage and tuna fish scent is all over them, triggering my gag reflex. There's also some empty plastic bottles, a comic book, half a candy bar, the plate of cookies from earlier and – surprise, surprise – forty dollars.

"Well," I say, holding up the two crumpled bills, "it's much better than nothing. Everything else pretty much sucks."

I dump the contents into a garbage can by the store's entrance, minus the money, which I put in my pocket. At least the backpack is light.

"We'll buy you a toothbrush, too. The hygiene I can still maintain out here is one of the few things that has kept me sane," Vaughn says.

I snort, but agree. "You aren't angry I grabbed the wrong bag?"

"No. I mean, it sucks, but it's not like either of us was thinking clearly. Besides, I don't have the energy."

I laugh as we start walking down the sidewalk. "Me neither, but we better get some, because there's still a lot of walking to be done." We groan in unison.

**OoOoOoOoO**

Vaughn wipes at his cheek with his sleeve the best he can; no point in drawing attention to us unnecessarily. We move quickly though the store, and I smile at the cashier as we pay legally for our purchases – it feels good to not steal. Altogether we got the peroxide, a toothbrush, some deodorant and a brush.

We then swipe a sweatshirt and some black sweatpants from the clearance rack outside a clothing store, and my good citizen feelings instantly vanish. On the bus, we miraculously manage to find two seats and doze a little in our seats, catching up on some much needed sleep. I, however, still feel exhausted when it's time to exit the bus into yet another city.

I comfort myself with the knowledge that this is the second to last one; one more bus ride, and then we can finally get to the docks and board the boat that will take us to the islands we have worked so hard to get to. The ride has taken most of the day; it's about four in the afternoon when we arrive.

We splurge again on a meal at a fast food restaurant, and by this time our money had dwindled from ninety dollars to seventy one. On our way back to the bus station, we pass a tiny motel called Sunny Horizons that advertises rooms for rent, forty bucks a night, in red blocky letters. I stop and study the sign for a moment, weighing the pros and cons of such a decision in my head.

It would be amazing to sleep in an actual bed for just one night, in the privacy of our own space, rather than borrowing someone else's. We'd also both get another shower, and maybe even a TV show if the room had one. Just relaxing for the evening was like a dream straight from heaven. But forty dollars, plus tax . . .

"We really shouldn't," I hear Vaughn say.

He's stopped a few faces away, and is now staring at the sign like me. "You're right. We shouldn't. But let's do it anyway."

I know it's stupid to be this impulsive, but the temptation is simply too great to resist. I head towards the motel's office without turning to see if Vaughn is following. I know he is without looking. I try to ignore the physical pain in my hand at having to let go of the bills when it's time to pay for the room at the counter.

The clerk – a short, balding middle aged man holding an apple – takes one look at the both of us, rolls his eyes, and mutters something that sounds suspiciously like "hormonal teenagers" under his breath as he hands me the key. Vaughn shoots him a dirty look before we exit the office, and the clerk looks appropriately scolded.

"Why is everyone a presumptuous asshole?" Vaughn grumbles as we climb the stairs to the second floor. "This is exactly why I don't like people."

"Like you wouldn't think the same thing," I say. True, the clerk's comment annoyed me, but I allow it to roll off my back easily enough.

"Yeah, but I can keep my opinions to myself."

"As you have so well demonstrated many times," I sigh, stopping in front of a white, plain door marked with the number 42 in faded gold letters.

I unlock it and we step inside. I drop my bag – I refuse to think of it as Sid's; that bastard may as well owe it to me for his actions – and flop onto the bed, burying my face in the pillow. It smells like detergent.

"God, it's so awesome to see a bed I can sleep in again." I roll onto my back and smile wider than I have in ages.

There's a small TV on a nightstand and a bathroom with a shower that is just begging to be used. This isn't a nice motel by any means; those little complimentary soaps and shampoos in the shower will be the kind that leave a weird residue on my skin and a weird feeling in my hair, but I'm not really in any place to be picky.

Vaughn nods and comes to sit on the other side. "I know."

"Let's watch a show tonight," I say, sitting up and speaking excitedly. "I saw a Chinese restaurant across the street when we walked over here. I'll go pick up some noodles and we can just be lazy and mindless."

A small smile turns up his lips. "Don't you think we've spent enough money recklessly tonight?"

"Probably. But . . ."

"Okay," he agrees.

"Okay?" I echo. "You're not going to put up more of a fight?"

"I want to. But it's hard to tell you no when you're this enthusiastic. I don't see you happy very often."

"Likewise, Mr. Expressionless." I make a face at him and get to my feet. "I'll be right back."

"'K. I'm gonna shower while you're gone."

"Leave me some soap."

I slip out the door and head to the restaurant. I don't know what Vaughn likes, so I just get some chow mien and a little tin of orange chicken. And, because I haven't had one in who knows how long, I also snag a Diet Coke. A few years back, I'd been seriously addicted to them. It would probably resurface if I started drinking the stuff again.

Feeling rather lighthearted, I smile at the guy who hands me my bag and walk back to the hotel. Humming an old tune I heard from one of my old foster fathers, I turn the key and step into the room. My cheeks heat up when I'm greeted by the sight of Vaughn standing at the foot of the bed, pulling some clothes out of his bag.

The bathroom door's open, and he's got a towel wrapped around his waist. He's on the lanky side, but the muscles in his stomach and chest are clearly defined, and I want to touch them to see if they are as hard as they look.

There's a smattering of bruises on his ribs, presumably from the tussle in the ally earlier, and other random scars in different shapes and patterns. One in particular is beneath a purple bruise on the left side of his rib cage, long and red. Not an angry red, like it just happened, but a dark, faded color. It's a sizeable line, and I wonder how he came by it.

But despite all these little imperfections along his torso, I still can't stop myself from studying it like it's the cure to cancer. And, making myself blush harder, the desire to see the towel drop to the floor so I can admire all of him takes root in my brain.

"Oh, sorry," I mumble, tearing my eyes off him and letting my gaze drop to the floor, positive that, in that moment, he can read my thoughts. They must be written across my forehead; I was all but gawking, and I curse my idiocy.

When I glance back up, Vaughn shrugs. "It's okay. I'll be out in a minute."

There's amusement in his voice; clearly, he's getting a kick out of my embarrassment. I exhale sharply and drop the bag on the table by the television. Well, at least he didn't make the situation any more awkward than it already was. I grab the remote and flip it on to a rerun of _The Price Is Right. _I've never really been a huge fan of game shows, but there's nothing else on. Vaughn exits the bathroom in sweatpants I've never seen before (black, of course) and a t-shirt.

He sits down beside me and immediately digs into the carton of noodles with one of the black plastic forks. Rolling my eyes at how quickly he's snarfing it, I stand and start towards the bathroom.

"Take clothes with you," he says as my hand touches the doorknob.

"This is my only set. Left my bag in the all, remember?"

"Oh. Right. Well, you should have to strut out here in a towel. It's only fair."

I blink at him, kind of surprised by his comment. I don't think he's ever made any real flirtatious remarks towards me. He's told me he cares about me, in so many words, and I guess he said he thought I was pretty once, but I still remember how he winced at how stick-thin I am. Not that I can really blame him. But I've never been sure if he was really attracted to physically, even with our previous kisses.

With the way he's casually letting his eyes rake down my body right now, however, I think I can officially lay those worries to rest. I know he's kidding, though, so I say, "It's not my fault you chose that moment to be mostly naked" and shut the door behind me.

The shower is wonderful. It's hard to find a happy medium between hot and cold, the pressure kind of sucks, and there's a little crack in the wall, but it's great, all the same. Even that weird soap residue feels like a gift, and when I step out, I feel clean and shiny. Back in the bedroom,

Vaughn has changed the channel to animal planet; there's some documentary about elephants on. He's left me half the chow mien and about a quarter of the orange chicken, which I eat in silence as his eyes remain glued to the screen. The show's kind of interesting after a while; elephants, I learn, don't actually like peanuts, their skin is one inch thick, and they live up to be up to seventy years old.

When I'm done eating and the show's over, it's getting to be pretty late in the evening, so I leave the empty containers on the table and slide under the covers on the right side of the bed. Vaughn turns the TV off and gets in on the left side.

"Not going to stay up for a while?" I ask, yawning.

"No. Tonight's been a nice and much needed break, but we've still got to be rested for tomorrow."

"So practical," I say, chuckling quietly.

"If we weren't both practical people, we'd be dead in a gutter somewhere by now," he says seriously, and I find myself enamored with his eyes for the thousandth time. They are so, so beautiful. I know I've already said that, but I feel the need to repeat it, no matter how annoying I am.

"I don't know if I could have done this without you," I admit to him quietly.

He turns off the lamp by the bedside table, and I don't wait for an invitation to snuggle up beside him. His body fits against mine perfectly.

"Yes, you could have," he replies, "You're smart."

"Well. Thanks."

I'm always unsure what to say when he compliments me; it means so much, because I know he never says anything he doesn't mean.

"Mm." He hugs me tight for a second. "Goodnight."

I want to say the same and go to sleep, but I hesitate. This is the first time we have slept together like this, in an actual bed – not a shed, or an ally or a sleeping bag on a hard floor. It feels more intimate than usual, and I think about how I felt before, when we were talking outside the bookstore. How I was considering declaring my feelings regardless of the consequences. I'm having similar urges now.

He's so close, so real, so there.

The only constant presence in my life since we started traveling, and probably the most reliable. I believe him when he says he won't leave me, and I love that I trust him. I don't know when I started to, but I do. And Sid's revolting touch is still lingering on my skin, and I want something to remove that, replace it. Before my senses return or I lose my nerve, my lips press against his neck, and I hear him inhale sharply.

He stiffens, and I let my mouth move up to his jaw, trying to gauge if this reaction is out of sheer surprise or lack of desire. But then his hand is in my hair, and his mouth on mine, kissing me with surprising passion, and I relax, relieved he hasn't pushed me away and demanded an explanation for my impulsiveness.

He rolls us so he's over me, his hips pushing between my legs, and I moan his name quietly when his mouth breaks away from mine for air. The heat and friction between our bodies is rendering me past coherent thought; I only know I want it to continue. My hands slide up his shirt, and he groans quietly as my hands trace his stomach; the line from the red slash is raised slightly, and I run my thumb down it, again wishing I knew where it came from.

The last time we were kissing like this Gemma barged into the room and interrupted us; but she's not here this time. It's just me and him, alone in our own personal bubble, away from a world that has not been kind to either of us. But when I start to pull on the drawstrings of his sweatpants, he pulls back and grabs my wrist.

"Chelsea," he says, his voice breathy and rough, "stop."

Frowning in disappointment, I do, and he rolls off me, taking a minute to collect himself.

"What are we doing?" he asks.

"Kissing," I say.

He rolls his eyes. "I know _that._ But you . . . I mean . . ."

"Vaughn, I . . . I just thought . . . I know what we said before, but I just . . . I don't know. I don't know what I was thinking." Blushing and cursing my earlier self who thought practically jumping him was a good idea, I look at the wall. He waits until I meet his eyes before speaking.

"You want to sleep together?" he asks, and I blink at him.

He is, again, very serious about this question. I didn't expect him to be so blunt about; but then, I've never known him to beat around the bush about anything.

"I . . . uh," I stammer, "I . . . I wouldn't mind, no."

I want you, is what I want to say, and not just physically. But since I'm a coward, I don't. Vaughn's eyebrows raise a little; I don't think he expected me to say yes.

"Does this mean we're completely discarding the whole 'don't get involved' thing?"

"I hate that stupid rule," I mutter.

He snorts. "Yeah, me too."

I hesitantly reach for his hand. "So . . .?"

"We'll figure something out at the islands," Vaughn says, "Whether either of us gets the job or not."

I blink at him.

"O-okay. I . . . I want to stay with you," I say quietly.

"You will. I promise." He wraps his arms around me abruptly and hugs me.

A little stunned by this conversation, I lay my head on his shoulder. So it was that easy all this time? Just admit our mutual feelings for each other are strong enough for us to agree to deal with whatever the future might hold together? I feel a little ripped off by all the angst I've been going through the in the past few days. I lift my head and return my mouth to his, hoping to begin where we left off. He kisses me back for a minute, but I can feel the restraint in his body.

"What's wrong?" I whisper.

He sighs and pushes me back for the second time. "I don't think we should do this now."

"Why?" I ask.

"Chelsea, I . . . I care about you. You know that. But you should have something better than this. You're a girl. Don't you want your first time to be magical and perfect? With someone who has declared undying love for you?" He's smirking a little by this last part.

I laugh halfheartedly; the sound comes out a little bitter. "In a perfect world, Vaughn, yes, that would be awesome. But my circumstances have never been the best, and I don't need undying love right now."

I loved him, but he didn't need to know that right now.

"You shouldn't have to settle," he insists.

"I'm not settling. Besides, you're a guy. Aren't you supposed to jump at the possibility of sex instantly and without a second thought?"

"Yeah, I'm probably a major idiot."

I smile and look down at my hands, unsure of what to say at this point.

"Chelsea, I want to. God, I want to. But, um . . . what if you got pregnant?"

I fidget with the hem of my shirt. "Well . . . um . . . I don't know. Most valid point of the evening."

"I couldn't deal with that right now. Neither could you. Hell, I don't even know if I _want_ kids ever."

"Me neither," I sigh, "and I guess you're right."

"But . . ." Vaughn's eyes are suddenly mischievous. "There are things we could do . . . that wouldn't carry that risk."

My heart is suddenly in my throat. "We could," I agree.

He leans toward me, giving me ample time to pull back or change my mind if I wish. But I don't. I receive his kiss more than willingly, and experience his touch and his pleasure in such an intimate way later in the evening that my soul weeps at the closeness of the moment.

**OoOoOoOoO**

In the morning, we wake up wrapped in each other, and I imagine I would love to wake up this way for the rest of my life.

"Morning," he says quietly, pressing a kiss to my forehead and stroking my cheek with his thumb.

I sigh happily and say, "Hi."

I expected this to be kind of awkward, but surprisingly, it really isn't. Proof of how much I love him.

"We'll get to the docks today," I tell him excitedly, "if we take the bus to the next city."

"I know," he says, "we'd better get moving."

Despite his words, we linger around the hotel room for most of the morning – check out is at noon, and the bus schedule we picked up earlier says the one we want to catch leaves at one. Vaughn kisses me periodically throughout the morning, and each time it's a shock to my system.

But it feels so good, I wonder why we haven't been doing it all along. He's in a much better mood than usual, too; I even catch him whistling at some point. We both decide to shower again before we leave – the better to stay clean for as long as possible. For the heck of it, I make the bed while I wait for him to get done; I went first.

However, fixing sheets while I'm picturing water running down his body proves to be a very difficult thing to do; sometimes I just stop for minutes on end to stare off into space like a moron. I feel high on life, excited, _happy. _So damn happy. The future has never looked this bright, and I feel like finding a meadow in a forest somewhere so I can dance and sing amongst the flowers.

I can't remember ever feeling this way in my life. It's incredible. But, of course. This can't possibly last. I'm just thinking about how something bad must be lurking around the corner when I hear a knock on the door. Wondering who it could possibly be, I crank it open and peer out, hoping it's not an armed motel robber or something.

But I'm greeted with the sight of a petite, pale woman with ash blond hair and big blue eyes. Her hair is twisted up in a messy bob, with loose strands hanging around her face, and she's got some lip gloss on, but otherwise is makeup free.

She's wearing jeans, gloves and heavy coat. But none of this seems as important to me as the red rims around her eyes, as if she's been crying recently. She sniffs, and wipes at her nose.

"Are you Chelsea?" she asks.

I blink at this odd woman, and consider lying, but she looks so small and frail that the truth tumbles out of me before I can stop it.

"Yes."

And it is then that I somehow know, without her even speaking, that the easiness of last night and the joy flitting through me was too good to be true. A tear slips down the woman's cheek.

"I'm Vaughn's mother."

**A/N: As usual, I fail at regular updates. R&R, please. :)**


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